The Moths

Moths observed all the key
moments of my father's life.
When he was born, a moth
popped out of its casing,

flying into his mouth. It left
five years later, when they
dragged him out of a frozen
lake, its wing snagged in his

teeth. They watched him as
he attached cameras on to
planes bellies, the stuttering
of their wings stopping years

later when he was nearly shot
by a Cypriot. I have seen them
watch him only once. When we
were in the attic of my aunts'

house, I saw them swirl around
him, their wings beating in synch
with his every thought. Then he
unfolded his wings and flew.