I see a moth sentenced to die by
an abandoned web a rain or two
away from slipping off the fixture,
tearing its wings to threads trying
to reach the light bulb above it, not
satisfied by the luminous halo that
made it an angel among its fellow
moths, all transfixed on the beauty
below, ignoring the light that drew
them to instead watch death at its
grandest. I saw a similar death: a
woman I loved was too weak to
whisper, but just before she died,
she said, “I love you” in a loud
voice. I saw only her as light and
missed the light she was drawn to,
the bright light she said she saw.
You find words in the flight scribbling
of birds. Frenzied cursive writing,
short words, then long, and then
a coasting. Wings out, breast out.
Bravado. You are convicted by
a sparrow. For you, it is bravado
first, then a coasting, then frantic,
feverish, furious words and, unlike
the bird, you lack gracefulness
almost as much as I lack grace.
Thomas Locicero’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Roanoke Review, Boston Literary Magazine, Long Island Quarterly, The Good Men Project, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Jazz Cigarette, Quail Bell Magazine, Antarctica Journal, Rat’s Ass Review, Scarlet Leaf Review, Tipton Poetry Journal, Hobart, and Ponder Review, among other journals. He resides in Broken Arrow, OK.