Photographing the Moths
Paula Bohince

Eruption at the flash: shattered light
swarming the screen door. Whitetail musk behind me,
scent of rhubarb spiked through. Ripped
wings like rag curlers the aunties wore
in girlish sleep, inheriting the hard, day-lit hours.
On the pillow, against the lens, questions of attraction,
Why moths? Why midnight? are lifted. No one home
to ask. No friction of love against reason.

from Paula Bohince. Incident at the Edge of Bayonet Woods. Louisville, KY: Sarabade Books, 2008. page 41.