Maggie Blake Bailey


My son sleeps, so I sleep

and dream that right below my knee,
my skin puckers,
itching, into peaks.

When I press, the heads
of moths push through,
and in one motion, I pluck the bright
insects from my body.

Even though I draw them out
as fast as I can,
color sings at the edge
of my vision.

I can see the wings:
jeweled red and blue,
folded and slick against
the long moth bodies;
my legs alive and empty.

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