We know a line by what gathers on its sides,
by the pockets it opens.
Shells, seed pods, membranes, cocoons.
Soda straws,
chambers.
Rooms within rooms, hollow spaces containing other spaces in their folds. 
We dig through soil, through stone, 
dirt, moonmilk,
we dig through memories. 
We carve them out, we make tunnels, wormholes, wombs.
We make room for ourselves. 
We lay concrete, 
we stir, we cut,
we add iron, more iron
rust 
clay
rubber 
moss
white butterflies, tiny ones, 
plastic tape, steel ropes, 
keeping emptiness together, enclosed.

We know wetness by the coolness it leaves on our skin.
We know movement by the stillness of the room around it, 
the hollow by the way it dances in the wind.
We know a line by what gathers on its sides.

If a moth, seduced by the light, gets caught on the other side of glass
if we remember it there, trembling, fighting,
intent on escaping the transparent prison
if we hear its wings flapping, losing precious dust with each pulse
then we cup it and release it in the night air
and it melts into the silhouettes of bushes and beasts,
then what of the moth remains? 
Still we look this way, we check the window, we imagine it there.
Its thick body caught between light and dark,
its dusty wings brushing the invisible edge.

We know a moth by the tremble of wings,
by the patient rhythm of knocks
of a heavy body against surface,
mistaking glass for air.



Text by Monika Georgieva