Photo by Max Kleinen on Unsplash
Nabokov, whose name sounds like knives
in the mouth, was an expert lepidopterist
Lover of moths, I imagine him walking
through his home where winged things are pinned
leaning his nose to the glass. Observing
scale patterns and color. The pupa
a body bag taken to the morgue, sliced open
and what flies out: the soul
There is a closet in Illinois where a sweater hangs
full of holes. Mother moth picked it special
for her kids. Navy, cashmere, a luxury
home for her eggs that wink open
larvae like white stars emerging
in the universe hungry
gnawing through
There is a man in Illinois whose brain is riddled
with holes. Though doctors would call it
something else: atrophy, shrinking.
Before the flesh corrodes, it seeks out
the light. The problem now being
pollution. Too much light, all the time
The glow is nauseating
Nabokov did not think women could write
So I send these words up to him
on the wings of a moth, up into the absence
of space, where there are no dicks,
no language, just black holes
hungry and consuming
Aiden Baker is a writer and educator who lives in Berkeley, California. You can find her work in Ninth Letter, Sonora Review, Orca, and elsewhere.