Cohabitation

Moths, unnerving as a loose power line sparking the drip-filled August air with high voltage — it is their randomness that frightens, erratically bouncing right to left, up to down, northeast to southwest — I miss strike after strike as if these small, powdery aliens had ESP or echolocation. I’ve lived years with these carpet and clothing moths, Tricophaga, Tinea, and Tineola. Gnawers of suits and carpets, shearing stitches like the anti-seamstress. I won’t bomb the house so we coexist, Latvia and Russia, as I rocket off the couch, Jimmy Kimmel on the tube — challenged to predict the spins and barrel rolls of this latest lepidopteran dogfighter — my weapon, hand or blue plastic swatter. Sometimes the rush of success — then I lick talc-dusted fingers to erase the chalky corpse from the ecru living room wall. Next morning, I open my tee shirt drawer, only to unveil two tiny holes in my AthFest 2015 shirt, the one perfectly aged, sweet as a baby’s bum, and I reckon that moth-human interactions are eternal as sunrise in the east, an unwinnable war against survivors of the Age of Insects, unless I’m willing to invoke the nuclear option — but the holes are small and few will notice.

Gary D. Grossman
MacQueen’s Quinterly #28
April 2025