Joel Vega: The Fifth and Careful Season
Beyond October, before the lure
Of orange, the swarm flies across
Listen, the talebearer says,
Listen as they drag the weight
Of distances from as far as Peru
Head, thorax, abdomen,
Two antennae, six legs.
Lepidoptera. Scaly wings
Open (inhale) close (exhale)
The dusty breath
Of mute birds.
What is an army of itinerant moths?
A catapulted piece of the moon,
Flung to earth from the Sea of Tranquility.
But ours is a season of agitation
When guns in an arid land
Hound orphans, their pain looming,
Bigger than a mountain.
Tonight, the moths seek shelter
In mossy ribs of fallen logs,
Their wings encoding
Secret trajectories of storms.
What we hear though is neither
Typhoon nor hurricane
But the solid rain
Of ricocheting bullets
Hissing in the dark.
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