Peppered Moths by Brandon Shane

Peppered Moths

I always think of us as something else, geraniums 

thriving amid the Dust Bowl, glimpses of hope

to weary travelers having lost it all.

I have been left with an empty pot and a plastic bag,

hearing the windows slam and lock,

drunk on the curb watching darkness fill.

We were gravediggers drawing corpses

with lead pencils, covered in portraits while lying

on a patio drinking wine out the corners of our lips.

The crows knew us well,

looking up not to look at ourselves.

You were pale and beautiful,

with nothing but a bus ticket across

the country. Riding for the hell of it,

doing it just for fun, young

and ready to die.

I threw away the classroom

and watched it settle in a damp syllabus,

laughed at the professors who devoted their life

to the casual scribbles of dead novelists.

I recently fell in love with another. There is

a farm, a one-eyed dog, wheelbarrows and a barn.

All butterflies have once died, figs must be picked

in the twilight of their sweetness.

Supercars now fill my hair with rocks,

the drivers are ignorant and happy.

I dig holes and plant flowers in them,

becoming the rain and the dancer.

We taught the same story for years

and always found something else,

that is why it was useless,

we made it up

and thought we were smart.