The moth laid eggs in my toothbrush.
Cocoons now coat my enamel,
cool to the tip of my tongue
moving inside a closed mouth, my mouth
The moth and I wait for silk to pulp.
We wait for the ridges of unfolded wings
to drag across my palette like a fresh boiled gum shield;
clumsy and ill-fitting.
The moth is a crucifix on the ceiling
outstretched in something like triumph.
Moths swarm the city outside these jaws,
mistaking streetlamps for the moon.
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