that month we walked around the block each night
at seven. we did not wonder too much
about the reason we were not at home.
tent moths had spawned in all the hickories,
their limbs encased in silk as if by fog.
we stared at all the houses that were not
ours, their porch lights pulled a swarm to each front
door. the quiet smoke-grey pavement still was
warm underfoot. mom took no pleasure in it.
she tried to grow tomatoes in the shade.
her jeans drew fallen caterpillars. they
crept up her legs in dozens. she left them.
i heard on their honeymoon, my father never
left the room. when, if ever, did she know?

 

Katherine Meehan received a Master of Studies in Creative Writing from the University of Oxford in 2019. Her poetry has appeared in Ink Sweat & Tears and Brittle Star. Her short fiction has appeared in Drunken Boat, The Golden Key, Glint Literary Journal, among others.