In the deep dark
In the deep dark fibers of the belly
Iron moth wings flap, creaking/
beyond peripheral vision/
there—no—there. Or there./
Not a moth—a bat. Hovering./
Mechanics threatening breakage/
overhead. Not a bat—/
hawk, vulture, dragon./
that used to digest Caviar
and deflated champagne bubbles
is a feeling of what was and of what will never be again.
Edited by Venus Davis. Words by Kerry Trautman and Frances Palladino.