Hypothesis

 

Fotografia de Vladimir Fedotov

Whether it’s true

that the moth mistakes the candle’s flame 

for the moon or the bioluminescent 

pheromones of another moth,

I can’t say.

I was the candle. 

I was the flame

conceived in and by reason of 

darkness, nibbling on a darkening wick. 

When moth after moth after moth 

swarmed me with their powdery wings,

I asked why. 

I asked how. 

I asked if

I could survive knowing

that not everything has a reason, 

that not everything is capable

of or interested in reason.

Nothing answered. 

Nothing spoke

my language of smoke.

Paul Tran