Missive

You must trust me:
slip your hand into the darkness 
of the wall-mounted mailbox.

That dry, feathery something 
dusting you, knuckles to nails,
is no cause for alarm, no enemy—

just an ordinary brown moth, 
brown as the back of a stolen 
horse crossing a flood-stage river,

brown as puddle water, as bark. 
She crawled inside near daybreak, 
the night of silent wandering

over, the thousand hungers again 
miraculously avoided, only
for a grotesque pink spider,

three legs missing from some 
battle nearly lost, to snap
the solace of her cave open.

The moth fumbles out, beats drab 
wings into a northbound breeze— 
into sunlight and danger.

Please, you must trust me: this
is your lonesome reminder, this moth. 
There is no cure for survival.

Read more from Issue 18.1.