By Christian Ward
I kept a moth under my tongue
for good luck: a death’s-head
hawkmoth—all velvet and cigar
smoke. As elegant as a flapper
dress. Charm borrowed
from Ryan Gosling. I accidentally
cracked the surface of the moon
with my boots one winter,
and the moth packed my shadow
tight into the trunk of its wing case,
zigzagging us both away
from angry plane trees keen to taste
its milky light. How many times
has it protected my chest from roses
unfurling a fist of barbed wire,
puddles threatening to swallow
my shadow like a lure, or held out
as I was besieged by twilight?
Thoughts of you circled me
like foxes, your territory not yet
dissolved, still acidic to the touch.
Christian Ward is a UK-based poet with recent work in Acumen, Dreich, Dream Catcher, Dodging the Rain and Canary. He was longlisted for the 2023 Aurora Prize for Writing, shortlisted for the 2023 Ironbridge Poetry Competition and 2023 Aesthetica Creative Writing Award, and won the 2023 Cathalbui Poetry Competition.
