The Moths

Everywhere in the house, little fluttering moths.
Was this was a plague from God

or were they were just little moths. All winter
we watched them, complained about them. In May

we cleaned everything, scrubbed carpets, threw out
old spices and half-empty boxes of rice and couscous,

piles of old papers, love letters I had written to someone
I couldn’t love. Then everything showed up, the lies

I told my husband, the musty photo. The little moths
battering their wings were the least of it. My husband

clapped his hands together trying to catch them.
Now it was all out in the open.

Our bad housekeeping,

the moths like sad little angels fluttering around us,
and the great,clean house, clean windows, a broken

heart, but open, open,
open and clean.

|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||| © Margaret Szumowski

BACK