Snug inside the design that is my self—there
the disappearing birds, stained-glass bits
hurled against the sky, pierce the smoke
that waits for night to pry the window open
and allow every past absence to enter.
O Holy Mother of Moths, brighten the light
that fills the scene where I fall. Let me be
caught by any who stay standing by watching.
Mary Jo Bang is a poet and a translator. Her books include the collection “A Film in Which I Play Everyone.”
