Gypsy moth

Taurus Mountains,
the fiery air of Mesopotamia;
she waits for it to caress her.

It doesn’t. The English cousin.
But she’s not entirely.
Nor Kurdish, or Turkish.

A gypsy moth
Eurasian
belongs in no one’s home

with wings that let her
                                               fly
             but she cannot land

on the pistachio tree
nor the Alder -
perhaps the Populus tremula!

A daughter of immigrants
in limbo - cut - in half
carrying the mass of the equator -

             flying nowhere
                        and everywhere.

    Flaws of time

She sits, tied by the burden of her tired limbs
the mould of her muscles loses its shape
like wax, victim of its own flame.
Every summer auntie’s freezer
was bursting with strawberry,
chocolate and blueberry.
Now she is the popsicle
staining the rugs
she can’t wipe
leaving us
with loose
patterns
stillness
captive
in the
frames
of her

Persian
rug.