by Kim Ellingson

I am thinking about the moths my brother and I used to chase in our backyard. 

When we caught one, we’d pull off one of the wings. 

This ensured our new pet would never leave us. 

We built microhabitats in an empty plastic ice cream bucket. 

We’d gently lift them out of their grass-filled home and set them on the slide to play in the sun. 

They always died within a few days, no matter how well we believed we had cared for them.

I remember red wounds at the amputation sites. 

I remember white wing dust on my little fingers.

I remember how we named each one.