Moth
A shame you can’t see my wings
origami creased beneath blades,
tempered in sleep and nerve.
I moved along the floor once,
a better substitute—.
Now, a hot white orb,
my only pull to death.
Dusty with travel, at this momentary stop,
I see past speckles of pollen
into the flower of things.
I am flexible and flickable, buoyant,
pulpable. These are my only truths.
And the golden rail down my back
like a wick of fire.
I know when to take flight,
when to unfurl into wind,
crackling only in traces.
I’ve been taught patience.
Echoes of history
in my segments.
When I lift toward the balloons of trees,
I am the painter’s stroke,
the high note of light.
Marina Pruna Moré is originally from Argentinean Patagonia. A graduate of Florida International University’s MFA Program, her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Soundings Review, Hong Kong Review, Hinchas de Poesia, The New Poet, Middle Gray Magazine, and The Acentos Review. She lives in Miami and works as Conference Coordinator for the Eckerd College Writers’ Conference: Writers in Paradise.