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Friday, April 27, 2018

Dans ma maison de rien, sur la lune

Someone talks about the moon yesterday. I resist
poems about the moon. It shocks me, the degree
to which I must distrust the celestial. When Mom
placed me down and pointed up, I saw nothing
worthwhile. When I asked Dad where God was
and he pointed to my heart, I wept that one could
believe a lie so importantly. The moon is a lake
in a future that already finished. What would it take
for us to finish our sentence. I let my hair down
in a post-moon morning. Squirted into my throat
a tincture of echinacea, belief only in the ache
of infection and perhaps holistic practice. Unclear
whether to remain in the present. I am bitter
because I cannot be myself. The self is a rock buried
suitably below. To dig is to disrupt the work of the
skin. The skin I condition, believing it mine—


A mountain lion cannot help her hunger, but she
knows what holy is. I wrote this in my diary after
witnessing a bighorn sheep and imagining it being
prey to anything. Last night, we discuss Victoria’s
bunny problem, the yearly campus-wide extermination
when it becomes too big of a problem. My ethnicity
shows under the skin of my American noise. I don’t
know a thing about Canadian drama. I am thinking
the moon never wanted its role. It glows a future envy
when it will release from our orbit. In this sense, I believe
in the celestial. Nothing is more holy than the gravity
that keeps it. Nobody at this table knows who I am. Eat
my veggie burger and tell a story. Every labor is an attempt
for my body to mean more. I tell the cashier this morning
no merci, je prends mon sac. My mouth fills with cotton
and I miss the easy refusal of the moon, that even when
I deny it, it continues on, a soft word in my teeth, there—

1 comment:

Radish King said...

I just flat out love this. Thank you.
Rebecca Loudon