By Michael Kroesche
There are purple moths
and Abel collects them, he’s
half naked in torn shorts
like an old boat sail, brown toes
among the baobab roots
Under a veil of vines in
the grass, flattened,
is a clearing where he keeps them;
bodies like lint stones,
the dead wings, dried violets.
He pulls pomegranates from trees,
cleans the seeds with his teeth.
The juicy fingers un-licked, sick-sweet,
the moths sense the scent
and flutter to his hands,
the red wetness gumming their wings.
Another bruise-colored creature,
a piece collected, Abel smiles
placing more wings on the pile.
He sits cross-legged, hair webs
his cheek and he breathes deeply
verdant air, damp-clear
and humid with heaviness,
ring around his grin.
And in each wing the mind
gains a piece, so Abel sleeps
in grass, in seeds, and rinds.