Night-wing dancer, your bright-lit pain
is my own. Your spiral flight around
my bedside lamp was inexplicable
once. I think of science class, the girls
preening in the front row, and how you live
for only one week, to breed and die.
You, who navigates a straight line,
by moonlight are trapped in my electric cloche.
You waste yourself on anthrocentric celestials
while I, diurnal, with decades to breed,
eclipse the slow-burning stars.
About the Author
Stephanie Kocsis is a Queensland-based poet. She has recently been published in Stilts and is directing the reinvented Words & Wine Literary Collective. She is currently working on a collection that explores the tensions between domesticity and landscape in postcolonial spaces.
Artwork by Coen Keyte
Wells Street Journal 