The moth arcs the kitchen bulb
and flutters away, drawn
to a lampshade, then
to the pages of my open book,
then to my bare arm.
She’s too fragile to be saved
in the usual ways—trapped
under a glass or cupped
in my hands to be released
outside. She flits along the edge
of a plain white bowl,
investigates the colorless center
of an abstract painting,
skirts a vase of eggshell peonies
cut from the garden—
each brief hope nothing more
than memory or mirage.
She drops to the floor,
landing too close to the cat,
who pats her tenderly
to death with one paw
before resuming his rituals.
Three of us now two,
the dun-colored body
a folded fan.
–
Brett Warren (she/her) is the author of The Map of Unseen Things (Pine Row Press, 2023). Her poetry has appeared in Bellevue Literary Review, Canary, ONE ART, Whale Road Review, and other literary publications. A Pushcart and Best of the Net. nominee, Brett was awarded residencies at the John Hay Writing Studio in 2024 and 2025. Learn more at www.brettwarrenpoetry.com.
© 2026, Brett Warren
Halfway Down the Stairs 