Coral Scherma, The Three Furies
Moth Rafts
Catherine Rockwood
Easy swell from our bodies’ drift
in this groveheld bloodheat spring
where my son and I find a drowned moth.
Small span of byssus.
Dropped scrap of love-loss’s flag.
Its death is ours to care for:
he wonders what’s left to be done.
At six he’s a killer of ants,
but absence of strength moves him.
One life with its scales on our skin.
Take it out of the pool, he says.
Skinny arms on my warm shoulders.
I do, and I say we’ll build rafts,
moth rafts, for the rest
from the husks these trees let fall.
Let there be one for each.
Satisfied, he moves off
and I let my heavy wings down.
Catherine Rockwood
Easy swell from our bodies’ drift
in this groveheld bloodheat spring
where my son and I find a drowned moth.
Small span of byssus.
Dropped scrap of love-loss’s flag.
Its death is ours to care for:
he wonders what’s left to be done.
At six he’s a killer of ants,
but absence of strength moves him.
One life with its scales on our skin.
Take it out of the pool, he says.
Skinny arms on my warm shoulders.
I do, and I say we’ll build rafts,
moth rafts, for the rest
from the husks these trees let fall.
Let there be one for each.
Satisfied, he moves off
and I let my heavy wings down.