Sometimes, when lying awake
listening to the sound of the earth's sighing,
my mother likes to call me moth,
explaining that I'm drawn
towards light, the way a shadow
is drawn towards formlessness. When I sit
and watch the earth revolve, she says
that the sound of the wind
beating rhythms on the shingles
are messages from god,
reverberating dully off the moon,
sentries refusing to say my name.
When I inhale, she says
the lights in the sky
are breathing beside me,
their pale, nettled embrace
encircling the equator of my waist,
squeezing tightly and refusing to let go.
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