The moth laid eggs in my toothbrush.
Cocoons now coat my enamel,
cool to the tip of my tongue
moving inside a closed mouth, my mouth
a reliquary.

The moth and I wait for silk to pulp.
For rebirth.
We wait for the ridges of unfolded wings
to drag across my palette like a fresh boiled gum shield;
clumsy and ill-fitting.

The moth is a crucifix on the ceiling
outstretched in something like triumph.

Moths swarm the city outside these jaws,
mistaking streetlamps for the moon.