Local Plagues

Posted by & filed under eggs past.

Dawn Corrigan

Buttery, wet, they’d slap
against us when we opened
the screen door in the morning

then crawl between
the two panes of the window
or light upon the glass bowl of the lamp,

anywhere they could cast
their powdery, jetlike silhouettes.
Sometimes one landed on the bulb

and burned, a suicide
or accident, and filled the air
with bitter death. In Gainesville

they had locusts
and grasshoppers choked
the fields of Texas, but here

it was moths,
bouncing around
the backseat of the car

plentiful as breath,
and once when you
were driving I reached back

and grabbed
a handful of crumbly
fluttering wings that seemed

a portent
of things to come.
Whatever that means.