by LucyM

there are too many poems about the moon:
“the moon is a fingernail
run through ink hair”
“a bleach spot on blue jeans”
“a quarter”
“a (w)hole”

what I want to know is, look--
we aren’t content to wait.
we make, make--
write and paint and re-write.

“the moon is a glass eye in a sunken face.”

but we will never make the moon again--
we make nothing so gravitous,
so vast, fast, first and last--
splendid!
we will never paint a moon the size of the moon
with sunlight shimmer-arcing over Earth

“the moon is a snapple cap in the dirt”
“the moon is a mouth”
“the moon cries out why, or why not?”

why do we say the moon cries out?
do we distill nine billion acres of iron alloy
into twenty-six lines
for truth?
for love?
for kicks?

it’s one a.m. and i’m staring at the damn thing,
spinning, skipping, screaming, “i can feel it! i can feel it! i can feel it! yes!”

and what i want to know is: can you?

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