Life of a Luna Moth

Another shot of whiskey. The moon blurs through a row of baobabs, standing like soldiers with shaggy, afro helmets. Gentle swaying of leaves beckons a lone luna moth, her powder soft wings brushed with light. I watch through glazed eyes. Heavy with life she whispers past each tree, taking her time, listening for the branch that chants the message we all wait to hear. I don’t bother to adjust the bra strap slipping down a brown shoulder. I light a cigar and wonder why it happens this way. A week or a life, searching, loving, regretting, giving, reproducing, lasts as long as the flavor in a piece of chewing gum. No mouth to sing a thread of pleasure. No voice to express contentment. We accept the game for what it is and remember the beginning, the cocoon, the moon, and the Luna Moth