they come out at night
flicker near the dead light
bulb pretend it is a candle,
or maybe the moon, i draw them near,
crush their wings in mid-air,
bodies burnt to ash in my witch palm,
for my medicine jar.
a pinch of moth ash in my morning
tea, for dry eyes for days, i stir it
with the minute hand from the
kitchen clock’s face
what i remember feels
like lead swimming in
my veins, so i spread charcoal
on my bread like butter,
to sweat you out through my skin
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