My neighbor is terrified of moths,
so much so that when one made its way through her open window
I received a frantic message from my landlord asking if I could assist.
I didn’t mention how I prefer my moths in picture form,
old habits die hard and I can almost always ignore my own discomfort 
to help someone else (not a brag, it’s fucking annoying).

I followed her to the room and right away, there was Mothra.
It was flitting around in tight circles, 
bouncing off a funhouse mirror-maze of window panes.
I asked my neighbor, who stood just outside the threshold, for a broom.
All too happy to have a task elsewhere—away from the pterodactyl wingspan—
she left me alone with the leader of the lepidoptera.

It gave up pelting the glass and perched on the wooden sill,
inches from freedom—battle worn and beautiful. 
Its tattered wingspan wears the face of an owl,
orange streaks above mimicked black eyes.
There were faces too, on the tip of the wings, they wore hollow white eyes, 
but I wasn’t afraid. I was a little bit in awe.
I wouldn’t be needing the broom.

Snow White delusions of grandeur I held out my finger—
and it climbed on.
This frayed thing I used to fear in the flesh, trusting me.
Slowly, I stretched my hand out the open window panel 
and at the first flutter of fresh air, it took flight. 

Two weeks later and I keep coming back to this moment. I don’t know why. 
I do know, I am terrified of spiders—

and for the last two weeks have made friends

with the spider living on my shower window.
She comes out now to wait when I enter the room, to collect condensation
from the steam of my shower, 
and after, when I vent the window for air, she catches the intruders.
I don’t know if there’s a moral to the story. 
I do think it’s probably a good case study on the lengths one will go 
when missing her dog.