Night/Light/ poem by Mary Newell

 
I felt guilty about my nightlight
in the bathroom, surrounded every 
morning with a cluster of dead bugs.
 
I pulled its plug and stumbled
in the dark a stolid week. But
who am I to know what moths need?
 
I want to die like St. Francis:
arms stretched, standing, not 
slipping into a morphinated haze. 
 
But maybe reveling in brightness -
even artificial – can console or
elevate, if you’re short on time.
 
Now I’m content to be the one                                    
who tidies up the shelf        
where moths come to die.

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Mary Newell authored the chapbook TILT/ HOVER/ VEER (Codhill Press 2019) and the forthcoming Re-SURGE (Trainwreck Press 2021), poems in journals and anthologies, and essays. She is co-editor of Poetics for the More-than-Human-World: An Anthology of Poetry and Commentary. A former Assistant Professor, she curates the Hudson Highlands Poetry Series. Newell (MA Columbia, BA Berkeley) received a doctorate from Fordham University with a focus on environment and embodiment in contemporary women’s writing.  https://manitoulive.wixsite.com/maryn.