Mothchild

I did not send you from one womb to the next intentionally.
Fragile, dusky moth against the screen, you broke forth half-formed.
Scarlet thread stretching between us; that silk line, broken.
I came with these talismans:
A lavender room, half-painted.
A crib with its legs folded under that will greet me tomorrow like a pale white spider.
I left the porch light burning as a beacon for you.
You slipped free of your skin this morning; a small piece of my soul scraped thin.
I cradled you in my hand, watched fists furl, unfurl.
Felt my knees give as you stilled beneath my cheek.
Outside the porch light burns steadily, the shadows dim,
The moths dream pale dreams, the street lights wink out.