MOTHS

On the first few crunchy walks on asphalt trails
I slipped like running on a newly waxed parquet floor.
I’d come to find what lay behind
The freshness in natural scented air sprays;
Opening all sealed places, I choked in strangling gags,
From battalions of camphor balls overdosing everything.
Mother imprisoned them in every bulging closet and armoire drawer
By mid-October…
Here began my mixed view of mass hangings
To sanctify the genocide of moths all through winter…
At some time of unknown crisis, later on,
She took to sprinling spice and pine chips
Flattening out to look like mouse droppings…
I remember dating, holding hands with Rosey,
As we belly laughed at these earlier times
When many cures like camphor balls
Proved far worse than its disease…
Young girls toyed with mother’s makeup
And I came to know by an older brother
To sincerely compliment any hint of perfume
Or light use of mascara.
I was introduced to father’s after shave
Hunting for any snippet of flattery
If only to justify that splash of bolting pain…
We all went blind to any beauty of white butterflies,
As our minds were poisoned
By what a single moth was thought to do;
On flannel shirts and hand sewn winter sweaters.

Ken Siegelman
Brooklyn Poet Laureate
April, 2007