Before she sits across the narrow table, I tuck a moth’s wings like a note into my pocket and the name of the moth is longing. There is an antiseptic hospice bed. A nurse’s hand is turning down the sheet for us. A cracked egg, blue as truth, falls to the flattened grass from the nest of a bird made of glass. When I turn the egg, a churning mass of maggots has drunk the yellow yolk.