“Closet Moths” by Karen Leona Anderson.

Come back tomorrow if you want
to weave your own death.
Today, you can’t: there is the rasp
of mouth-parts opening like Fates,
the click of their trim. Today
is the crab-meat shred of your joints’
old silk, and the sun’s fine fissures
and the porch light burst, and you
can believe the moon is a compass,
fracked by the branches. All your best
rags leak from the closet: distressed
leather, neon-leopards, metallic,
oil-finished, wool pierced at the waist
and bound by pins. What
you thought you should
want. Today that stitch
is cut: you can beat your brain’s
grey wings up and out. Leave
the honey in the rock. Crack
your own heart’s doors. Come together
however you want.

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