Remember that summer

the night heavy with moths

stumbling against invisible glass?


On fragile wicker chairs

we sat and creaked,

argued about those wars in Ancient Rome

and whether my eyes were brown

or black like a witch



the better to explain

your hand’s sigh upon my breast


And as your lips

wind soft, wondering

brushed cheek and eyes

I watched a moth

hungry for the light,

and sympathized.


Jacqui Stewart.