This poem is taken from Stand 212, 14(4) December 2016 - February 2017.

Rebecca Goss Five Poems
Moths

She stood up from the bowl,
pulled a triangle of cotton
close to her again

and heard them, fluttering
against porcelain sides.  
She turned, looked down at their efforts

to skate on the yellow film.
Each silvery wing intact,
how it thrilled her to see them expelled,

to know she had passed them
from that hidden place.  
She pressed between her legs,

felt for tremble and twitch
but it seemed just this half-dozen
had fallen; flapping themselves dry -
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