Moths
by Joel M Toledo

The children know better.
They scamper in and out of the darkness,
celebrating the narrow transitions
between sorrow and bliss. Right now,
my sister is climbing the stairs.
She feels a sense of triumph; 
I hear it in her laughter. 
The harsh, yellow light recedes
and bursts around each footstep.
We all go up the staircase. 
Moths of various sizes hug the wooden walls.

People are murmuring downstairs.
Their speech is too old.
My mother says they are mourning.
When people wear black clothes they are sad, she says.
I do not understand. We are just curious and young.
We gather close and stare at the biggest moths.
Our eyes are wide open, transfixed
on the intricate patterns on the insects’ wings.

This is really about my grandmother.
She is dead.
She fell from the kitchen table, 
trying to keep my sister from falling.
She was in a coma for months,
and I had to stay away from home
while my mom and dad watched her die.
My father never forgave my sister.
He got drunk every now and then,
hurling words to the hushed trees,
cursing the brightest stars.

I hear my father now. He is drunk against the moonlight.
It is so dark when he passes under the trees,
but his voice is sharp and clear.
We are never too young for sorrow, he says.
And he falls into a disturbed sleep,
the night broken by a child’s voice
rising to my room.
I remember something is lost. 

I miss my mother. She moves around the house
like she is always looking for something.
Today I find her upstairs, sorting old clothes.
Moths have eaten through them, she says.
The clothes are gone,
but I remember my mother
smelling like an old, forgotten closet. 
Her hand is reaching into fermented darkness,
finding broken things, changed things.
Now she is in the backyard.
I walk up to her to say grandmother fell.

My sister is going up the staircase, giggling,
and I am not afraid.
We watch the moths intently,
looking for meaning,
for something to be scared about.
What is there to be afraid of?
There is only my grandmother
in her long sleep downstairs,
the strangers in black clothes,
and the hot, yellow light
rising up through the cracks on the floor,
alighting on the children’s faces,
on the dark designs, on a thousand moths. 

And then there is this. I am talking about
something really heartbreaking.

  Joel M. Toledo holds a Masters degree in Creative Writing (Poetry) from the University of the Philippines in Diliman, Quezon City. He is a literature professor at Miriam College, also in the Philippines. He was the winner of the recent Meritage Press Poetry Prize in San Francisco and placed second in the 2006 UK Bridport Prize for his poem, “The Same Old Figurative”. He was co-editor of Caracoa 2006, the official literary journal of the Philippine Literary Arts Council (PLAC). He has two Palanca awards for Poetry and his works have appeared in various local and international publications including Rogue Poetry Review, The Washington Square, The Bridport Prize Anthology, The Philippines Free Press, and The Sunday Inquirer Magazine.