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For my gray-bearded grandfather,
William McBride
(1937–2019)
I’m different. I’ve figured and counted. I’m not crossing
To cross back. I’m set
On something vast.
—“Crossing,” from The Tradition by Jericho Brown
MOTH EGG:
a) an oval or round object that is laid & contains a developing embryo
b) a roundish home from which the hungry sprout
c) a boundary from the living because we are not ready to live yet
This is long work. A finding spell
for roots destined to twine.
—Gray-Bearded Grandfather
(Rootworker)
CALL ME (MOTH)
That’s what my parents (Jim & Marcia) named me.
My brother got a “normal” name: Zachary.
My mom’s sister (Mary)
didn’t like the name her parents (William & Juliet) gave her.
She changed her name to Jacqueline.
(Jack) for short.
I’ve thought about changing my name.
Especially now
with no one to really mind.
Given or replaced, names hang to your bones like forever suits.
When I die people will still say, (Moth),
she was great at dancing before she stopped.
She might have gone all the way,
danced at Juilliard, been the next Misty Copeland.
Like I still say, Zachary was a pyromaniac, which is probably why,
with a name like Moth, we were the musketeers of night—
the torch & the moth.
Like I still say, Jim & Marcia were really into Shakespeare,
their favorite play was A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
Names outgrow you, like a garden left untended;
they don’t disappear
with the science that keeps our bodies alive.
Jesus is still Jesus, alive, dead & resurrected—
& if we forget, headstones remind us that names
slouch on without bodies.
So even though my name is strange
I have to live with it.
It has been with my nerves for far too long;
my name is a thick wilderness
of angelica root around me,
crafted for my spirit.
& mostly because that is what they
(Jim & Marcia) named me.
ALMOST SUMMER (AGAIN)
Two summers ago our car broke in half
like a candy bar on the freeway & we all spilled
onto the pavement as crumbled as sticky caramel-peanut filling.
I broke three ribs & my stomach tore.
I fractured a leg & was gifted
a scar as crisp as the tip of a whip from jaw to eye that I trace
most in summer, when the sunrays make it feel so chapped,
I have to smooth Vaseline over it daily.
It was the start of summer, we (Mom, Dad, brother & me)
left New York to visit Aunt Jack in Northern Virginia.
Before we broke in half
we
were
merging.
All of our beaten bodies made it to the haunted hospital
overrun with figures in white, smelling like
formaldehyde & alcohol wipes.
Aunt Jack prayed & prayed & bit her nail beds ruddy—
but there is only so much prayer & if god takes sacrifices,
only so much blood to offer.
That day there was only enough prayer
& blood for one of us to walk out.
NOW I LIVE A SECONDHAND LIFE
After the accident & the scar like the tip of a whip
I changed schools to live with Aunt Jack in the suburbs.
I go to a school that is 94 percent white
with only six Black kids—who don’t talk to me.
This is nothing new.
Black kids sealed
their lips to me in New York, too.
I’ve always been
a passing breeze,
felt but never seen
unless I was dancing.
Maybe here, in this Virginia suburb,
everyone glues their lips shut because
I don’t wear North Face & UGGs. I like girls
as much as boys.
I don’t slingshot the n-word so I am not white or Black enough—
I am not something to anyone.
Or maybe here
silence took root because
first impressions matter
& two Septembers ago Aunt Jack,
who is single & after the accident began drinking
too much, didn’t buy me shorts that fit, so I had to borrow hers.
I had to roll them up
to craft shorts instead of capris—
I started sophomore year
secondhand everything
(shoes, shirt, backpack, socks, shorts).
Everything borrowed from my head to the tips of my toes.
It’s fine, I don’t mind being nothing
to no one, unrooted on every soil
my feet trespass on.
It’s fine, it’s just
in New York, two summers ago,
the funeral was rudely everything but mournful—
the birds tittled & tattled & the leaves insisted
on sunsetting over the urns & everything I wore
was borrowed, even my time felt borrowed.
So now when I (Moth) think of summer
I don’t think of Southern sweet tea rotting my teeth,
or staying with Grandfather for two weeks,
or bikinis & cheap beer smuggled in too-large purses.
I don’t think of riding the wind
or lying down in soft grass
twisting clouds into shapes.
I think of candy bars breaking in half.
WHEN I LIVED IN NEW YORK CITY
I have noticed some things traverse state lines,
oceans & railways.
Things like, all Black kids like sports.
Black people like fried chicken
& watermelon & rap music & twerking
& being loud.
I have noticed sometimes a stereotype becomes the truth
to even the stereotyped,
so when I started ballet at five, I heard things like
Black girls can’t be ballerinas,
their legs are too thick & their arms
are too strong, not delicate like willow branches.
& my friends dropped me like a hot potato.
Instead of playing outside after school,
Mom & I traveled to the best dance studios
so I could flutter my wings & sprinkle
dust on everything, so I could dance
strong, like Misty Copeland—
& be bullied for b
eing
the only Black one in class.
Other ballerinas said,
Your skin is ashy,
dusty like your name.
I said, My gray grandfather
says our skin is rich
like the lands
my ancestors came from.
I only ever felt at home
when moving
under the stage lights.
When moving I could fly,
but after the accident that split
I gave up movement,
so sometimes I feel less alive.
(AUNT JACK’S) LIST OF RULES
Don’t talk about the accident …
Like really don’t talk about it …
Praying about it aloud is okay, though.
Leaving offerings on the mantel for the ancestors is just fine.
Always have wine in the house.
Always have whiskey under the sink.
Never touch the urns—never.
Never mourn loud enough to make flowers wilt.
(MOTH’S) LIST OF RULES
Don’t live too hard.
Fetal: huddle, knees tucked to chin
Be as silent as a seahorse.
Devour lyrics & melodies like raindrops on your tongue.
Choreograph a symphony of movement in the mind.
Pour bottles of wine & whiskey into the sink.
Watch Aunt Jack search for them.
Forget the ancestors, they up & left.
Build a new god out of toothpicks & song dust.
Let your hair grow long.
Harden while huddled.
Don’t crack.
Don’t dance like Misty Copeland.
Do. Not. Crack.
Don’t. Dance. Like. Misty. Copeland.
VIRGINIA: ALMOST-LAST BUS RIDE OF JUNIOR YEAR
Even after two years of riding the school bus, small bumps make me clench my jaw tight. I don’t have a car because cars cost money & driving in tiny cars sounds like broken bones & torn skin, which means I am the only junior on the bus. So I am basically a freshman. The ride is too long with only my old iPod, headphones & the one downloaded Spotify playlist Zachary and I made two summers ago for company.
I lift my long green locs, which resemble seaweed or Medusa’s snakes, over my shoulder & stare out the window. Every house is white & white & white with red brick & white. Every lawn is green & green & greenest.
The two other Black kids on the bus are younger & don’t speak. Or they speak, but never to me. They never bothered to learn my name. Which might be a blessing, considering my name.
I guess a girl with a family who spilled out of a car & who has a scar down her face is too fragile to bully & what is the point of talking if they can’t stack insults on my chest?
The thing about the white kids is they do what they want & the bus driver acts like he has cotton in his ears. The bus driver looks like his ancestors oversaw brown bodies picking cotton. The white kids slip new names at the other Black kids like nooses each bus ride.
Two Septembers ago, I started here, at this school in the suburbs. Away from the smell of city fuel, where basketballs hitting pavement are as numerous as the sound of crickets in the country.
The suburbs don’t sound like anything.
They are just bland—unseasoned. As tasteless as frozen toast.
In New York, I used to fracture my toes in pointe shoes six days a week & cherish the bleeding. My gray-bearded grandfather used to say, You dance like magic because you offer so much blood.
I used to feel tied to the music of the city, even walked to the beat.
But here, I don’t dance anymore. I don’t move.
I just sit & think
of drifting away …
away …
away …
BOY WITH LONG BLACK HAIR SHOWS UP IN HOMEROOM
His hair is tied in a knot,
but a few strands waterfall across his forehead.
The homeroom teacher:
… last minute to start school?
Waterfall hair:
Didn’t want to come.
Homeroom teacher:
Maybe you can make a few friends before summer.
Golden eyes:
Don’t really care.
He taps his pencil against the desk & more of his hair,
now looking like lava after it has cooled, slips into
his face.
He doesn’t look Black or white or any of the boxes.
The pencil hits the table, then the center of his palm.
Blond & crimped flutters in front of him,
graceful. The butterfly (Ashley)
wants to know if he is a drummer.
He glances at her—mouth sealed shut.
I notice a cut to the left of his Cupid’s bow,
thin & red & angry.
& he taps his pencil slower
& my feet point in my shoes.
I wrap my ankles around the legs of the chair,
strangling my will to move, to sway, to dance—
to live too hard, too much.
I tug my spirit back into my skin.
I will myself into stone.
Butterfly (Ashley) says,
What are you, anyway?
His hair covers his face again—
curtain closed.
Eyes closed.
He just taps his pencil faster.
Reminds me of tap shoes scuffing
wooden planks, or rain hitting
a tin roof.
No smile. No smirk. Just a beat I can’t miss
deep in my gut, at the root of me.
“SHARED” LOCKER RULES
Don’t use a locker, because they are not “shared” if you look like me.
First day: My books were placed in a neat pile beside my “shared” locker.
Second day: I started putting all of my books in my backpack—I felt heavy.
Third day: Then I stopped bringing books because—I was sinking.
Now I don’t even bother learning which locker I am supposed to “share.”
FINAL PEP RALLY: DANCE TEAM
There are six hundred kids in the junior class
& all of them love pep rallies.
Even the Black kids. It starts with chanting
our school motto & ends
with the dance team.
They don’t dance so much as gyrate off beat.
I’d say twerk, but you have to have an ass
to twerk,
you have to have rhythm to twerk.
The choreography is choppy water
instead of wind blowing
through a field of wheat
or graveyard ancestors kissing cheeks.
The song choice is fork scraped over granite
instead of
hands displacing soft dirt.
In my mind I dance over them, the (flawless butterflies),
with my green snake hair.
I stomp them each out like cigarette butts & stare all the
men to stone.
In my head I live a lot.
In my head I dance a lot.
TRANSVERSE ORIENTATION
Before my grandfather died he taught me
that a lot of what we think we know
about moths is as flimsy as their delicate wings,
which sprinkle
dust & death like whispered omens.
Grandfather used to say, There are no omens, just balance.
Balance is what brings about magic.
It’s true that my name is often an omen, but not always.
It is not true that moths like light—
that’s a butterfly thing.
The truth is it started with the moon,
when there were no flames or torches.
No cars beaming & hurtling down freeways.
Certainly no cozy front porch lights licking at t
he night.
Transverse orientation means to follow the angle of the moon.
It led moths straight for millennia,
until fire & the tragic lightbulb.
A flashlight shambled a million years of celestial navigation,
the artificial hue somehow outshining
the actual moon.
Grandfather used to say, We light candles because they are lighthouses
for the spirits of our ancestors to come sit with us.
We give offerings out of respect.
But what of other light? Like a sea turtle moving
toward spotlit pavement instead of the moon-rippled sea.
Who will answer for the sin of it being easy to get lost
when so many orbs mirage
the illusion of brightness?
BUS RIDE HOME
Mr. Hardened Lava Hair is on my bus,
which is stuffed. Which reminds me of candy bars
& fillings falling onto the street.
Seats are not assigned,
but the one beside me
is usually an empty
question mark.
Mr. Hardened Lava Hair eyes the empty space
that everyone avoids & calls haunted because
a few years back a girl had an asthma attack
& died in this very spot.
Kids cram three to a seat to avoid sitting here—
but I had a Hoodoo grandfather, deadness
doesn’t bother me.
Mr. Hardened Lava Hair frowns at me & blinks.
Once. Twice. Three times.
He glances around the bus before shifting off
his backpack & pointing
to the open space beside me.