[dreamy little savage]

 

Light is a blanket or a basin in which to wash. Then it is nothing again, and here I am, there the plains, the well, the watering hole, animals congregated there, a herd of low clouds on the horizon. The last healer I went to was haughty and would not look me in the eye. The gesture for come here looks like go away. No is said with the flick of an eyebrow, a soft click of the tongue.

 

 

[white spring]

 

I am working on a specimen so pale it is like staring at snow from the bow of a ship in fog. I lose track of things—articulation of wing, fineness of hair—as if the moth itself disappears, but remains as an emptiness before me. Or, from its bleakness, the subtlest distinctions suddenly increase: the slightest shade lighter in white begins to breathe with a starkness that’s arresting and the very idea of color terrifies. It has snowed and the evening is blue. The herders look like buoys, like waders the water has gotten too deep around. They’ll have to swim in to shore. Their horses are patient. They love to be led from their stalls. They love to sharpen their teeth on the gate. They will stand, knees locked, for hours.

 

 

 

I am running night-time experiments: a white sheet strung between posts, illuminated with moonlight and coned torches.  If indeed the moon is what guides them, light is never meant to be close, but a far beacon by which to steer. Nearer brightness is a mistake—they are unprepared. Some species visit soon after dusk; some don’t arrive until nearly dawn. Some swing directly towards the appearance of light, hit the sheet with their wings, cling there. Others approach the luminescence, but keep a certain distance. Not every species goes for the torch when I remove its cover, but most do. The space at the center of the flame fools them; they turn and seek the middle darkness.

 

 

 

I woke again today with the steel helmet tightening. Dreams wander. Pain arrives at first like chance, as if it just so happened, as if it were required of a situation, like fear in a fight. It is best if I sit up quickly, but I rarely sit up quickly, usually too late and the helmet is in place. Light is blinding. I must not lean back or even raise my feet to a stool. I’m glad for visitors when they come. Now that the villagers know of my work they bring me pictures. They see the moths as compositions of color and line, and assume I might study theirs as well.

 

 

 

Perhaps I stay because they are a horse people and I miss my stable. I’ve arranged with a local trader to visit his stalls. With the animals, the scrim of language is pulled back and I am fluent. With men, it may be easier without words—certain arguments never arise. I find myself caring for people I know almost nothing about except the way they move their eyes across my face, their eyes across their fields, how likely they are to put a hand on my shoulder, to laugh or slap a horse when thrown.

 

 

 

I’ve decided where I will hide if thieves come, and, if found, what I’ll reveal of my possessions, in what order. There’s not much here but the moths in their envelopes, notebooks, drawings. Certain utensils are difficult to find and I would not give them up without a fight. It’s surprising, how the currency of a place might be in wooden spoons, iron pots, how quickly we believe it.

 

 

 

During the cold months they keep miniature gardens in their homes, tiny plots of seedlings and herbs. Rosemary looks like giant cypress. I see them gaze longingly at the animals in their pens as if wishing a goat might shrink to size.They eye my moths—what beautiful birds to inhabit their landscapes if only they would come alive and stay.

 

 

______________________________________________________________

Lisa Olstein is the author of Radio Crackling, Radio Gone (Copper Canyon Press, 2006), winner of the Hayden Carruth Award. A new collection, Cloud Hands, from which the poems published here are drawn, is forthcoming from Copper Canyon Press.

 

 

 

:::::notnostrums