Just Between
I tossed an Egyptian moth
in front of his eye. In the morning,
it hovered, then opened. The moth
had shimmering green wings
with a shadowed eye in the shimmering.
It was not a luna moth,
not a butterfly. It opened
wings of feathered beauty, a night sky
full of moon and stars,
a ripple, Nefertiti’s dream, a song.
It was magic. I tossed it there,
an embrace, a sliding of fingertips,
an Egyptian memory rippling
though oceans, stopping time.
When I asked, the shimmering wings
opened in front of his eye,
fluttering above the memory
of a cheekbone.
A moth but not a butterfly
tumbling through time. It hovered,
then flew.
— Diane Frank
