When a finch-sized moth flies onto a train,
no one notices
except a poet and a nurse working triage.

clicks a man with turrets.
I reach for my bag
and freeze
while the moth turns tricks
in the window
like red light women in Amsterdam.

My last airplane ride, a stowaway fly
puked all over my cookies.
I ate them anyway hoping whatever was born
in me had wings.
Don’t lie, you’d eat garbage in a second
for the chance to escape gravity.

During my childhood summers,
we’d always smuggle spiders,
ladybugs, moths moved from firewood;
from camp to camp.
I envied their great escapes,
hitching a ride, having no idea where you’d land.
I held them in my hand
hoping they saw my skin as a wheat field
blowing in sun.
We must keep the smallest things safe – that’s what I learned
cupping both palm like a boat,
only releasing them when water calmed.
I was their keeper.

Dearest, moth, you cannot stay here
I see death by frightened passenger
death by turrets
death by desert body odor.
We’re not so different, you and I
stuck on an unstoppable track
and I can’t promise you won’t fall
to a pigeon or die an imminent death,
but take my finger,
lets fly out these doors together.

I saved him, but couldn’t get a picture.

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