Moths
The women in my family are like moths.
Present,
Persistent,
The major players that hold up the food chain in mass,
Selfless pollinators who don't know any better
When they approach our porches.
The old saying goes,
"Like a moth to a flame,"
Like willingly flying toward something so bright,
A steadfast yet self-destructive attraction.
Like willingly choosing the mirages of men,
that eventually only make them unhappy.
Moths live in a variety of dangerous habitats;
They adapt to their surroundings.
The earth tones on some of their wings
Help them blend into the background,
And I think of my aunt.
She doesn't wear makeup
because her husband doesn't allow it.
I think of my mother,
Who dulls her colors,
Speaks in lighter shades when my father enters a room.
Most moths don't live long
After laying their eggs.
Their children are their life's work,
And I think of abuelita,
Carrying an entire ecosystem
On her tired wings.
Trying to teach her daughters,
Not to take-off toward the light they saw
out of the corner of their eye.
She too thought it was the moon.
She too was wrong.
Moths are notorious for their artistry
in impersonating other animals.
When everything in your world is intent on eating you,
you have to get creative in how you stay alive;
Some moths have developed the ability
To look like less palpable insects.
My mother sometimes has the stare of a tarantula.
My abuelita sometimes speaks with the sting of wasps.
And my aunts mimic the praying mantis,
Hands together in solemn request,
That someone will give them the love
their father never did.
The women in my family keep going through metamorphosis.
Keep trying to shed the generational mistakes in evolution,
As if their new skin will heal their injuries--
All it does is cover their broken bones.
I never thought forgiveness was second nature in my family,
But I watch as the moths keep landing,
Keep coming back to porches that set their wings aflame,
And I am trying very hard not to resent them for it.
I wonder if moths ever blamed their mothers
For condemning them like this.
For giving them such poor judgement,
They fall for every trick of the light.
My mother chose wrong,
So I spend the rest of my life fearing
I'll dive headfirst into an open flame.
That one day
I'll find myself laying quiet
Between his teeth.
That I'll find myself in ashes.
That I'll find myself wearing someone else's colors.
But the thing is,
We evolved long before butterflies for a reason,
And my sense of direction is a lot better;
The men I choose are not the moon,
Not my endpoint,
Not my forest fire.
Maybe I am stuck in metamorphosis.
Maybe fear is my new survival tactic.
Maybe I am no longer a moth,
But my own person.
The only one who walks away from the porch,
Who pretends she can't heart
The moths still buzzing behind her.