by Jersee Jogue
The moth spoke first.
It rested on the mirror, smack in the middle.
When I came in, it was humming,
humming a tune I barely recognized,
Its wings twitched slightly on the upbeat.
I stared it down.
“When I was born,” it began, “from the cocoon,
my wings were lowly stubs.”
My eyes travelled the wings.
Two eyes looked out from the ends. Trailing from the bottom wings,
The edges drooped down to the sink.
“Oh, yeah?” I asked. My hand brushed across the
sink to my mascara. Pop open. Apply. Stare
over the body and through the antennae.
“I pumped them full of hemolymph, my blood,
the ambrosia of angels. I meditated as my life flooded and pooled
and made me what I am. Can you say the same?”
I wondered if I dragged the mascara over its antennae,
if the moth would let me live or
if it would crawl in my mouth to choke me.
“No, I can’t say the same. We’re different after all.”
The moth tapped a leg, impatient. “Yes,
We are different. I last a week. I cannot eat.
But in the end, when I’m pinned to some collector’s wall
and you’re food for my friend the worm,
we’ll see how it matters how long we lived or how we lived.”
I caught my own eyes in the sliver of the mirror I could see.
“You say a lot for something with no mouth.” I said.
A smile flashed in the mirror, and I couldn’t tell
if it was the moth or me.
Jersee Hogue is a local artist and art educator who graduated from Youngstown State University. Throughout her life, she has remained fascinated by the connection between creating written works and creating artworks. Previously, she has been published in Jenny, and is currently in the process of finding a literary agent for her book.