His half is smaller,
his yellow wing
darker on its leading edge.
Her wing splays large,
also yellow,
a small triangular tear
in its trailing rim.
Both wings veined
like a river delta,
both misted with
black ovals as if someone
flicked ink on them
as they flapped by.
Their brown is the brown
of an overripe banana—
camouflage for fall leaves.
His antenna fans,
eyebrow-like,
hers a smooth, penciled arch.
Say the letter
“p” into your palm and that
whisper is how their body
feels, perched
on your hand.
Their fleeced head, thorax,
abdomen fuse
them together:
male on left, female on right.
Two sovereign hemispheres
operate a moth body.
This never happens
to us, our hormones
make other
mistakes. Even if it could,
we’re crosswired:
female brain would flex
male thigh, male brain
would extend female bicep.
The man with mincing
walk, the woman with
cocky shoulders would then
somehow negotiate
to walk themselves
as a single person,
to the store, at first, for oranges
that they take home,
peel at the kitchen table
and feed to each other,
sticky juice
dripping
down their chin.