Luna Moth
One night in June, I’m lonely
in an A-frame in the woods.
You flap on my glass door
and I let you in. As big
as my hand, you flutter near
and pause by a jade vase.
I know about you Luna—
how your lime wings glow
and your caterpillar journey
from instar to instar,
apolysis to ecdysis,
molting five times before
you emerge for a seven-day
flight to mate and lay eggs.
Buoyed by your limelight,
I turn out lamps, open the door,
and let the moon lure you home.
Drenched
My husband tosses his cap
across the set dining room table
toward the front door, and I say,
No boy-play in the house.
I fail to see the glass of water
he holds in his other hand, and he says,
Starting when?
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Typecast, 1955
In high school I took typing to prepare
for Miss Hickey’s Secretarial School.
Girls sought MRS degrees.
Movies promised a handsome boss who’d
call me in to take a letter, and then decide
to take me—forget that letter.
With keyboards capped and a chart
on the wall, we looked straight ahead.
My ASDFG was QWERTY. For sure,
my boss would forget that letter!
We copied business correspondence
and placed imaginary orders for cases
of Halo Shampoo and Vitalis.
Next to me, Diane’s carriage chimed.
She typed 80 words a minute to my 35—
hers flawless, mine smudged by that round,
pink eraser, its little brush snowing
misspelled words to the floor.
Failing the braille of touch typing,
defeated by shorthand scribbles,
and with no movie ending in my future,
I’d have to go to college and hope for the best.
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