I Have Left the Moth on the Wall Alive
by Rebecca Jean Dosch

    as one of my desperate prayers.
    I am waiting to be unfolded
    like a guest towel in your hands.
    Desire stole away on the four a.m.
    train, crazed fool. Pressing the bullhorn
    more than necessary, she shatters
    the neighbors' dreams into the icy shards
    of wine glasses. Through the slatted blinds,
    a stranger in a tuxedo, cane in hand,
    highsteps 15th Street. He sings:  
    All the churches will burn.
    Please believe me about this,
    I haven't the strength to lie.
    Here in my realm
    of membranous floors,
    I take the place of chairs,
    my feet the only broom.
    Bullhorns keep keening
    for your return. Go ahead,
    Love, you need to witness
    the capped conductor's rage
    when he kicks the interloper
    in the ribs. You need to hear
    the kssshh of the wedding dress
    and veil striking gravel.
    You could be a savior.
    The rest of me waits here,
    tipped against the wall.
    Here's your desire, you might say,
    All is well. I do. I do. I do.






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