November

I see a moth on the floor of our house:
wings spread flat on the ground, before a broom sweeps it
away. A yellow shade, a sunflower.

I recall what I have been told
about the presence of moths:
it could be my great-grandfather,
hailing from the afterlife of India, mysterious and quiet,
delivering a message; it could be my great-aunt who died
before I even met her (they say she went crazy,
after her husband left; “The woman ate her own hair,”
the would say). It is likely my grandmother,
who died last year from a disease that took root
thirteen years before any of her doctors even noticed it. An insect,

A moth:

I wonder if this is what we will be reduced to
when our bodies give in to passing, when
our bodies embrace what escapes age, when our skeletons
pack its belongings, takes all of flesh and countless sinews
out the door: leaves us
with no other option (not even the unreliability of heartbeats)
than to stay behind and possess
the hapless body
of a moth who is but a bystander
already short on its own life,
just so we could return to our old homes
and idly plant our weightless bodies
on walls once familiar, position ourselves
on newly-polished floors- risk

being stepped upon
by our own children: suddenly much older,
bearing faces we never imagined them to have,
mourning us beyond what is necessary
or not at all.

Will we enter our houses disguised as strangers
just so we have the chance of speaking to our children
in a language marked by the insignificance
of thin, beating wings. Would we dare attempt
telling them everything we failed to say
when we had them so easily held in our arms?