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.