A Slow Translation

A moth is hitting the yellow bulb on the porch,

a frantic, dusty tapping

that sounds like a finger on a windowpane.

It hits until it’s dizzy,

then drops into the shadows of the wicker chair.

She used to sit here with the wool in her lap,

pulling a silver needle through a heel.

The floor lamp caught the metal, a flash in the dim.

"The light isn't the destination," she said,

her voice low and steady as the stitch.

"It’s just the loudest thing in the room."

I watch the moth crawl toward the dark,

finally understanding why she worked

in the corner where the shadows were thickest.