by Nynke Salverda Passi
A moth’s tetrapterous body is impaled—
as if by the pins of its eyes—
on the green screen door of my kitchen.
The powdered edges of its wings
pulsate with the calm of death
upon the faint extinction of its breath.
It is early fall, the air paper-thin
as if it could tear. I can’t tell apart
the squares of mesh from the moth’s
nacreous skin. My mind tries
to capture this scene in luminous words
and turn this ordinary door
that needs a coat of paint and a new knob
into relic or shrine.
Then the barest flutter of pensive,
passive rage trembles through the moth’s
caviling frame. It dies so young, so
surely, and it has no name.
Now I’m awake it dies, and as I slept
last night, its life had just begun.
About the Poet:
Nynke Salverda Passi was born and raised in the Netherlands. Her work has been published in CALYX, Gulf Coast, Red River Review, Illya’s Honey, and The Anthology of New England Writers, among other places. Her poetry has been anthologized in Carrying the Branch (Glass Lyre Press) and River of Earth and Sky (Blue Light Press). Together with Rustin Larson and Christine Schrum, she edited the poetry anthology Leaves by Night, Flowers by Day. Her story “The Kiss” was nominated for a Pushcart, and her essay “Oom Ealse and the Swan” was one of the finalists in the 2014 Editor’s Prize of The Missouri Review. Nynke has 20 years of college teaching experience in creative writing and is director of The Soul Ajar, a writing center offering workshops and collaborations exploring the relationship between writing, creativity, and healing.
Find her website here: https://www.nynkepassi.com/
June 13, 2019 at 9:00 AM
Reblogged this on Poetry & Transcendence.
June 13, 2019 at 4:04 AM
June 12, 2019 at 2:42 PM
Lovely poem. Full of vivid imagery and feeling