Moon Fishing

The city lights wink, and cars bob over bridges.

I perch on my boat and cast a line into your rippling

reflection. What would we do, moon, if you visited?

If you popped up with my fishing line, smooth as an

Oreo cookie. It would only be for one night, because

I know you’re busy up there. 

You could be a beautiful balloon bobbing over my

shoulder. We could stroll by all the children waiting

for moon dust magic, the children who sleep on cold

floors and hide in the back of classrooms. 

You could whisper in my ear about what heaven

looks like, if the view is any better from up there.

We could dispel that cheese myth too, I know you

don’t appreciate it. 

Then we could glide by restaurants where lovers

snooze, and light up the dark office corners where

fathers and mothers hide. 

I could pull that flag out of your ribcage. I love

my country, but you don’t belong to anyone. 

We could slow all the young people that hurry, hurry

on, who have forgotten they still live under you.

We could cheer up the elderly who need to look at

something new.

We could warm the hands of the homeless

whose nights are cold and long. 

We could tell this frantic world to hush, hush, hush.

We could do a lot of things, moon.

Seeds

(A new version of Reconcile)

Once, we planted lemon seeds by the sea.

Shoulders brushing, we loosened the fresh soil

in the pale morning light. Inside, the steam

from our cinnamon bread clouded

the window. But we only thought

of the salty air and the seeds,

 so cold and light in our palms.

We didn’t know then how bitterness

could grow to taste so sweet.

For months we still filled our cupboards

with jam jars and painted the sea together,

melting its sunsets into our canvas,

taming its lion waves in our frame.

But at night, locked in your warmth,

I thought of the buds outside, yellowing.

We sliced the first lemons, clean inside

as the sun at its birth. The first bite hurt,

so we covered them in sugar.

That’s when we saw our painting,

turned so still and sepia.

So we let our brushes rust.

Then it came, that storm vomit.

Our lips cracked, our tongues stung

you did, you are, how could you, I hate that you—

and our sea darkened to ashen purple.

 Rain screamed, shutters flew.

Our painting tilted, the jam jars rattled,

the roof unhinged.

The lemon trees stayed.

We stopped to breathe. I studied you,

your frame outlined in the blinking of a lamp.

I used to trace your soul.

You watched me too, me dripping and wheezing.

Your eyes softened.

We knew what to do.

We smashed them under our feet,

slicing and spraying their sour flesh.

Then we tossed them into the sea.

Reconcile

Here is the moment

when the words we’ve spun into stones,

thrown, hum like a wasp’s nest released

into our quiet canopy.

The fruit on our tree is rotting now.

We used to shelter there, one strong back

against storms, drinking its shade like wine.

Then, pebble small dissatisfactions came:

you are, you did, how could you, why would you,

I hate that you’ve twisted our love, it’s lust now,

it’s rusting our dreams.

The last wasp leaves. I see now, our vinegar tears

could make seeds for new trees or weeds.

Aren’t you tired? Our well is empty now.

We are both bleeding.

You once tread softly and needed no map.

Softly through the valleys and snow peaks in me,

the river beds and seas of soul behind my rib cage.

And I’ve forgotten you too,

how you are made of star breath and dust,

carved by God’s thumbs. I once filled a mast

with your miles, now I’m anchored at bay.

We must stop throwing stones.

Let us clean our wounds and plant a new tree.