The moth walks laps around the top of the lampshade.

The man keeps thinking he’ll fall asleep at the end

of the next lap, the next, and he probably does but

his waking mind tells him he didn’t.

The moth, compelled to pace the warm rim,

loves how the heat does not singe its papery body.

An eclipse of moths jostles around the outside light,

but this lampshade is a singular paradise.

A clear path, no competition, heat.

This light may be the moth’s mother.

The man’s mother is one of the many doughs

he kneads while he’s not sleeping.

He wants to be free of her but her wings keep beating.

A hundred is old enough.

She is not a warming light; she is neon then

a black hole for attention every meal, every moment.

The next night, the lampshade is cold.

The moth settles for the blue kitchen light.

The man’s body forces him to rest.  He drowns his mother

in whiskey, but she keeps bobbing up, still talking.