Gypsy moths swarmed the porch lights that summer.
I couldn’t sneak in the back door without a trail of spotted wings fluttering after me
as I stumbled to find the light switch.
I spent most nights in a friend’s garage with a tribe of stubbled, red-eyed guys
who listened to obscure jam bands. I’d mix ether-smelling vodka
with orange juice and giggle nervously until the potion conjured the perfect
blend of disembodied overconfidence.
The night we kissed, pressed between an old wire chicken coop and a stack of tires
like we belonged there, I felt nothing. Your taste, the sour resin
of burned weed and a pack of cigarettes, didn’t bother me.
The thrill of peeing outside, hand poised against a tree,
was what finally sobered me as I watched dumb moths ricochet
again and again off the garage windows, their paths wrecked by the light.