A Group of Moths Is Called an Eclipse

I wish everyone had a family like mine,

As big and bright and batshit crazy and, yes,

As suffused with lust for light,

Willing as wicks

To burn ourselves up

In pursuit of pleasure unparalleled.

For what is more sublime than indulgence

In the company of those who encourage it?

What does Heaven have in store

That we cannot find in those around us?

What can Hell posture with

That surpasses their absence?

It’s a party in my uncle’s hospital room.

I almost forget that’s where we are until I leave,

No choice but to walk

All the way down on my way out.

I try not to stare

But the sight is so alien—

Not the sores or pumps or cables

But that every patient is their dark room’s sole occupant,

That everyone else on the little world of the fifth floor

Is suffering unimaginably:

Alone.

I console myself. Did someone come by earlier?

Does anyone ever?

Two truths:

The foulest stench in a hospital room

Is loneliness, not miasma;

And the more dearly we love our lives

The closer we are to losing them.

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