From The Porch, A Moth
- From The Porch, A Moth
poetry, Tyler Kline, nature, death, family, time
Today at the park the grass is so greenit's like a dog with a too-human name.By the pond, a child clutches two stones,one in each fist, and for as long ashe holds them they are entirely his.I listen as my mind sets limits,breaks them, and does as it pleaseslike an off-script graduation speech.It helps to think of your mindas a landscape. Picture the groovesand valleys carved like a penknifeto bark from years of compulsions;it's so easy following where the floodknows it must go. One summermy mother and I shared a bottle of wineand decided how we'd like to die.We're alike in this way—choosingour own beds and the solaceof sleep over the spectacular.I fanned out playing cardsas if I was offering pieces of myselfshe would study like a skulltilled from the field in both her hands.That summer, the horizonwas as long as a barn burning.From the porch, we watched mothsstitch the humid air. Guessing,since neither of us knew,the exact time it would takefor the yellow moon to deliverthe dark pines teeth. [End Page 121]
tyler kline is a writer from Pennsylvania. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Bat City Review, Best New Poets, Colorado Review, Denver Quarterly, Harpur Palate, and Sixth Finch, among other places. He's currently pursuing his MFA at New York University, where he is a Jan Gabrial Fellow.
