I speak for the moth that snuck into my closet
in the dead of night,
or maybe early morning
when I was not aware.
Naughty moth, buried into my shirts,
saved from a distant summer sale.
A small hole barely noticeable
on Monday
became a crater by Thursday.
I am not on speaking terms with the moth
exposing my underbelly darkness,
making me a murderer to one so small.
Perhaps the moth escaped;
I never found him,
or her eggs.
I speak for my closet which has been
vacuumed within an inch of its life;
it’s clothes hung in bags.
Cedar blocks,
lavender sachets, a sprinkle of moon jelly
and nightly incantations.
I have noticed snails in my garden and ants by my
front door.
They have nothing to say,
having spoken to the moth.