Oh moon: our ancient companion
slinking a w a y
from us slowly
In the future, no one will bother to write about it anymore.
But how dare you—
What kind of poet calls The Moon an IT?
It turns out, the moon is not always female. And she is never a lady. Sometimes the moon is a bitch, leaving the party before anyone else with your keys still in her jacket pocket. Forcing you to beg a ride from someone you suspect may still be drunk.
No photos allowed.
The moon is a mirror, showing you yourself. Or so They say.
Yes.
Your ass looks fat in those pants, She says.
And Moon would know–being both round and flat somehow.
We have that in common.
Another poem about the moon and how I am her and she is me and am I even a woman anyway?
Am I a sphere of ice who has been projected onto since time immemorial?
The first mystery we could see and whisper about since we found words and had eyes to open
Goodnight.
Really liked the ended of this one.