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luam cleaning house – umbertide

Moths, moths,

this is our

shelter, what

one of our kind

made for another

of our kind.

That light is

not a moon.

But an invention.

It keeps us safe

from stumbling

up the walk

or helps us to see

what it is

at the door.

In the morning

your bodies, shavings

of flight, here & there,

having surrendered.

You were always dying

in my sleep.

& I, your last


Before I take the brown broom

gently to your body,

I see your once-was.

With care, I study your eyes.

It is my job.

from the black mariaFind it in the library

Copyright © BOA Editions, Ltd 2016
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of BOA Editions LTD.

Published in Aracelis Girmay Poems

This program is supported in part by a grant from the Idaho Humanities Council, a State-based program of the National Endowment for the Humanities.

Any views, findings, conclusions, or recommendations expressed in this (publication, website, exhibit, etc.) do not necessarily represent those of the Idaho Humanities Council or the National Endowment for the Humanities.