The Luna Moth Has No Mouth
All insects have them yet the luna moth leaves
its mouth and the memory of hunger behind
with its caterpillar past. Now it survives by
absorbing moonlight, hence, its name. There’s
so much moon for the nocturnal feasting, we
witness its depletion each month. The moon,
so helpless to the millions of insects that fly
by to take their share of luminescence.
The moon, so large we can see it, even when
we don’t mean to, is also so far away we can’t
hear its cry for help. It’s a silent demise, like
a drop of sweat vanishing on the hot sand.
Ice melting in the embrace of a glass of water.
The luna moth has no mouth, we’re told. But
neither does the moon. It dies of the opposite
of neglect, which is overindulgence, and nary
an utterance of objection from its moon glow.
The moon perishes from too much attention,
such vanity, such self-centeredness. It doesn’t
need a mouth because poets and lovers
are its spokespeople, an entire publicity machine
at its disposal to sing its praises, punch-drunk
and, truth be told, pernicious. Enough already,
babbling bards and lovesick turtledoves, the moon
gets plenty of play. That’s why it keeps coming
back for more. It feeds on flattery the way
the luna moths drink from its arrogant beams.
Maybe we have it all wrong and the moths
are trying to save us susceptible humans from
this prison of codependence: ego enabling ego.
Luna moths, our diminutive heroes on a fool’s
errand, without mouths—or stomachs!—live only
for a week or so, yet spend that precious time
delivering the same unheeded message:
Don’t waste your life on those who
will never love the way you do.
Notes:
This poem is part of the Ruth Lilly Poetry Prize folio in the October 2025 issue of Poetry.
Source: Poetry (October 2025)