89/365: Magic and the Moth

The kitchen a sweltering August hotbox,
people wet and contentious
after hours of smoke and full-moon agitation,
it had been a long night,
but no one would leave.
I pushed and cajoled against people who didn't care
about a little suburban girl's fears
and the state of her parents' furniture.

But then something right happened:
a moth, soft and white,
fluttered to the kitchen light.
The moth fixed a powerful point somehow,
and I had to push my finger at it
and yell HEY!
I struck out with my finger.
It was a desperate act.
The whole place fell into an abrupt quiet, though,
and stared at the space between my finger and the bulb.
The largest man in the house,
the one who'd been smashing into all the furniture
with a leg in a plaster cast, yelled
WHAT?

THIS, I said,
as though I could,
as though it made any sense to do so,
and I pushed my finger again
through the air and up at the moth.
I felt this connection with the thing
and commanded it like we were in collusion,
this was our moment,
and the moth dropped to my fingertip
and latched on
like he was my God's honest proof.
Holy shit, the largest man said.

I marched the moth outside,
and I said, All of you will leave now,
and they did, all of them,
every sweaty drunk wreck in rotten shoes,
single file
out the front door.

#365poems at Schmutzie.com