When the man who makes moths
asked me what I thought of independence,
I told him it had already been cleared away,
a spill on aisle 90 of the syphilitic
warehouse on I-25.
There is a question in my purse
and an answer hiding in the
milk I won’t drink.
I bound my breasts and thanked
God for tension and pressure.
For his newest moths,
he asks me to raise orange lights
from the depths of my instincts.
But I have poured my instincts
like wishing wet water
into the mouth of a butterfly,
who even in the dark seeks
flowers on someone else’s estate.