In the Leafmeal

Weeks after her death, my friend

has become a moth. I know this

not because of the old stories

about the soul, but because

of the way her soft brown wings

are barely distinguishable

from the litter of beech leaves,

the forest duff—near perfect

in their vanishing. Moths

are lungless, though

they breathe, and a substance

like dust shears off their wings

when they’re touched.

It isn’t dust, and I don’t

touch them. Dear silent

creature in the leafmeal.

How could I have seen you

if I had not seen you fly.

Kasey Jueds is the author of two books of poetry, both from the University of Pittsburgh Press: Keeper, which won the Agnes Lynch Starrett Prize, and The Thicket. She lives in the mountains of New York State.