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Luna Moth, and: The Poet at Fifty-Nine

Luna Moth, and: The Poet at Fifty-Nine LUNA MOTH She has one week to live. Th e first night, she appears at my window: finch-sized, owl-spotted, swallow-tailed. Astounding me with her vivid green beauty. Mouthless, she is not driven by ordinary hunger. She craves moonlight and streetlight, mates after midnight, leaves legions of eggs on the underside of black walnut leaves. Her caterpillar offspring will never know her. After the seventh day, I find her in the grass, lime wings faded to celadon and tattering in the wind. KATHLEEN LEWIS 79 THE POET AT FIFTYNINE —after Larry Levis Autumn is a glum raisin, plumped with sweet wine, stirred into a spiced batter. As the cake bakes, scents rising, I think of the woman who taught me to make it, of everything I learned from all the old women: How to seed zinnias and play canasta, make artichoke relish and ambrosia, tie French knots, polish the silver, the hemming and pressing of skirts. Th ese women spun stories on the porch in evening, waiting for the house to cool. Hung strips of foil on grapevines so bluejays wouldn’t steal the ripe fruit. Snatched clothes off lines before storms struck, wrote letters to men at war. Th ey http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Appalachian Review University of North Carolina Press

Luna Moth, and: The Poet at Fifty-Nine

Lewis, Kathleen
Appalachian Review , Volume 43 (4) – Sep 11, 2016
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Publisher
University of North Carolina Press
Copyright
Copyright © Berea College
ISSN
1940-5081

Abstract

LUNA MOTH She has one week to live. Th e first night, she appears at my window: finch-sized, owl-spotted, swallow-tailed. Astounding me with her vivid green beauty. Mouthless, she is not driven by ordinary hunger. She craves moonlight and streetlight, mates after midnight, leaves legions of eggs on the underside of black walnut leaves. Her caterpillar offspring will never know her. After the seventh day, I find her in the grass, lime wings faded to celadon and tattering in the wind. KATHLEEN LEWIS 79 THE POET AT FIFTYNINE —after Larry Levis Autumn is a glum raisin, plumped with sweet wine, stirred into a spiced batter. As the cake bakes, scents rising, I think of the woman who taught me to make it, of everything I learned from all the old women: How to seed zinnias and play canasta, make artichoke relish and ambrosia, tie French knots, polish the silver, the hemming and pressing of skirts. Th ese women spun stories on the porch in evening, waiting for the house to cool. Hung strips of foil on grapevines so bluejays wouldn’t steal the ripe fruit. Snatched clothes off lines before storms struck, wrote letters to men at war. Th ey

Journal

Appalachian Review – University of North Carolina Press

Published: Sep 11, 2016

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