The Pantry Moths

When he left the moths vanished
a whole week passed
without looking in the mirror
I had to undress the tears
made me sticky
how do I look at this
a lie for a silence
the answer was a river
pinned to his lapel where
a flower
should be
these were not the years
stretched long
like those of brief ticks
a father makes
just above his child’s head
no the year
moved quick like a wall
and no longer
did I search the cupboards
for the grains that might keep them
because when he left
they were gone
of their leaving
I can only say I miss asking
where they came from
and what kept them coming back
all those wings
those almost dead things
familiar birds
you ask how I know it is an owl
the head keeps turning turning
not in disbelief
makes me move this way
like a woman
slipped out of a wooden figure
at the ship’s prow
or shed of molt
a new snake
suddenly fluid
like the ocean
she finds herself in
which isn’t to say she had no hand
in it
she broke herself open
like water
into a sea
and if she turns back
to glance at the figurehead
it might look to her
as a death mask
or what she thinks her face
looks like
for one’s head can’t turn
so far
as to behold oneself
the fruit flies have come
with summer
with him
and yes with fruit
and peaches
nothing red except the veins
of each pit
my blood contained
under blue surfaces
and this my open mouth