the moths are out, so close the window

Danae Younge

every morning, i grip the stillness gathered on bolts // and toss it into my

mouth like fruit pulp // this year, the human body is caged // for how it yields,

deconstructs under another’s breath // a touch, the electricity of kissed skin

sparked in summer // i, too, am aware of all the ways in which i am weak //

how closed doors keep my toes from freezing // how the attic is where best to

store // those tiny blankets, nibbled under paisley wings // a night when gold

was confessed on the sill // how it feels when my joints become nails in a peen

// and i ask what more will bend? // nesting dolls stew // darkness feeds them

dust from milk bottles // inside is something like origami paper // i tell myself

these crates are necessary prisons // my boyfriend tells me one of them is not.