When the man who makes moths

asked me what I thought of independence,

I told him it had already been cleared away,

a spill on aisle 90 of the syphilitic

warehouse on I-25.

There is a question in my purse

and an answer hiding in the

milk I won’t drink.

I bound my breasts and thanked

God for tension and pressure.

For his newest moths,

he asks me to raise orange lights

from the depths of my instincts.

But I have poured my instincts

like wishing wet water

into the mouth of a butterfly,

who even in the dark seeks

flowers on someone else’s estate.

Little screams flutter by

like so much cash at Christmas.

On the cold, creaking merry-go-round,

murder by centripetal force planned.

The walnut trees tsk.

Beneath the candy canes

doing flex time for the traffic lights,

melting slush with

the impression of honesty

imprinted by every boot over the crosswalk.