You still punctuate my life, lacuna and ellipsis
Rather than comma, mark of absence and loss,
Notation of a beat skipped, a breath missed.
I found a luna moth last night, wide across
As my palm, clinging to the moonflower vine.
I watched her leave eggs — half a dozen, sticky —
On the underside of a leaf, a dot-string of her own,
Then slid my fingers under her warm gravidity
And sent her on her way with a breath still warmer.
I ran my fingertip under the heart-shaped leaf’s ridges,
Carried the glob to a tree too spreading for the larva
To harm, then went in to watch the Marlins and Dodgers.
In the third, I imagined your crow-footed smile,
And hated that lurid green bitch for being alive.
Finding the moth and moving the eggs stayed bottled up inside me until a prompt to write an epistolary poem gave me permission to say what I was feeling. This is also a Shakespearean sonnet.