Passage
BY AMY JEAN BAILEY
In a flutter of a thought, I wonder if white moths –
familiar as a passage of light on the bedroom wall,
or the flicker of nostalgia –
could be visits from spirits
who find us by the particular sour and spice
of our skin,
our breath
of pale toast and dark cherries
our hands
of wild carrot and the honey musk of dogs
our hair
of salted sleep and sticky dreams.
And what if we miss these messages, instead reading the flash
of the hummingbird’s green satin robe
as airmail from ancestors.
We are, after all,
the kind that tie bright ribbons
around precious packages
and draw the shapes of our own name
and our beloved’s name
with a flourished hand.
But what if we were to turn our gaze
from the shimmering passing
of jewel-toned birds
to the plain day, common white moths
who have been urgently dancing circles
around us for hours,
and who themselves are
small folded notes saying Please.
Amy Jean Bailey is a poet, anthropologist, and educator. Her poems appear or are forthcoming in The Timberline Review, Clockhouse, West Trestle Review, New Verse News, and elsewhere. Born and raised in Chicago, and then living all over the U.S., she now resides with her dog in Seattle, Washington.
