I learned the art of detachment
from a destructive pest
romanticized by poets
whose origins go back millions of years.
Celestial nomads that feast on
leather, wool, silk, felt
and thrive on night
taught me to let go of longing—
animals stuffed with memories,
dolls from a distant dad,
an embroidered coat from Gimbels.
When I returned to my late mother’s home,
white larvae covered elegant outfits.
Soles fell from Ferragamo pumps.
Moths cunningly coached me to occupy now,
not dwell in closets lined with past lives
nor focus on nostalgia
tarnished by death and deceit.