As midnight approaches, the trail seems endless,
each step a useless gesture towards a destination

that draws no closer. Drawn to my headlamp,
a moth the size of a sparrow batters my cheek

with powdery wings, the softest slap I’ve ever felt,
and accidental besides—the creature wants only

to bask in the light I’ve strapped to my forehead in order
to banish the swath of darkness I point my face at.

Stumps, trunks, and boulders jump forward
in their brief illumination before being swallowed

by a darkness made total by contrast. On night
hikes with my father, flashlights were forbidden.

You’ll ruin your night vision, he’d say. The trails
he chose were level and sliced cleanly through

the forest, creating a corridor I could walk through
with no fear. The moon, always visible through

the sparse canopy, the footing even and smooth.
My father slapped me once, for slamming the door

to my room after we’d fought. Shame dusted
my cheek, though I wasn’t sure whose. I wonder

now, what he wanted me to learn from it. Not just
the slap, but walking in the woods after dark.

It’s too late to ask—he’s far ahead, walking
away from me into the endless, moonless night.