Poems by Amy Wright

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Lepidoptery

by Amy Wright

From Canary Fall 2014

Amy lives at the crossing of the watersheds for the Lower Cumberland and the Red. Once a year, she participates in a water ceremony similar to the intermingling of voices on Canary, where friends pour water from their summer travels into a clear bowl to celebrate coming together after venturing apart

Grandfather, auto mechanic, lepidopterist
in the posture of upright fence, Tom
peers into oak groves.

Plain clothed, no blaze orange earflaps
outfit him for this encounter
with the annual emergence of buck moths.

Hunting season though he bears a long-handled
butterfly net and permission from a local farmer
in lieu of a license, a rifle.

After working all his life with his hands,
he knows where to hold the thorax
to relax these downy puppies, keep their crushed

velvet scales perfect as a layer of baklava.
What he wants now, a not-yet retired man,
his blue Ford parked by the roadside,

is to breed a female. He looks far-off
with a fisherman’s patience, sighting the distance
for a falling leaf to come alive, beeline

behind him where a gravy-tailed egg layer
is calling, knowing a fleck will break free
from the hard

woods, flit toward him waiting
with a forked twig in a fastfood bag,
his little golden years luxury.




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