I once tried sleeping on the sidewalk, drunk

and reluctant to let the night slip from me,

just to show mom I didn’t care anymore,

that I needed no roof or name.

                        I let myself get kicked

out of the house when I could—never sure

what to make of apologies back then,

others’ or my own.

And they say each conversation with your parents gets shorter

until we only have ourselves to talk to,

until the arguments are all we remember,

attention spans like moths hitting streetlights— 

A moth beat its everything against a streetlight

and the moon, what was left of the moon—male moon,

female moon, every moon between, and the sun

and all her children; moth body, moth soul, moth life,

moth will and intellect pitted against a lightsource

which offered no shadow, no warmth, just bruising

and the sound of bruising.

And I thought

            I haven’t wasted my life

                        like

                                    there’s this moth and there’s light and here’s

me, and the concrete is still warm, still breathing day

            into my back and legs

                        and I figured

                                                this is alright.