After the first revolution
the poet’s were busier than
cabbage moths in the garden
The Poet’s Garden Maxine Kumin
When the white moths eat away at my words I feel I’ve betrayed myself. I have let the inner critic chew up and spit out my truth. As if it didn’t matter, as if what I had to say wasn’t important.
They are insidious, these moths, they seem to be saying, who do you think you are? I will gnaw away at your until you are so vanilla, so bland you will be almost invisible. You will not take up space, except as a reflection of others, which is your only true worth.
The moth says, I will eat up and chew up and shit out those sentences that start with I. Those “Is” are sweet to me. Tasty. A feast for the destruction of the You that is You.
Rebekah Riebsomer Spivey for the Poplar Grove Muse