Wanda Waldera © 2014 All Rights Reserved
Out to the street and we are under the near-dark side
And the Maria. The moon’s seas: do they still exist
On nights like this? We, between the stars
And the earth’s water, eavesdropping on our possible lives,
On things that sort-of-were, were not, might still be,
Because the stars were misaligned on the dates of our births,
Or on the dates of our dates, we are grazing the farthest parts
Of each other when a man with a medium-sized dog walks by:
There’s Betelgeuse, there’s Castor and Pollux,
Scorpius, he’s chasing Orion across the sky,
He says, as the new moon rises, yes, still
It is rising, and we can’t, we can never be sure
Of the moment the new thing begins, of the sky-conflagrations.
I say: My resolution is to learn more constellations
As our breath moves through our differentiated bodies.
I do not say my other resolution. It is as the stars move,
As the nights of the moon follow each other: dark, new,
Waxing, waning, then beginning again some day in the next season.
Now the moon falls to the other side of the sky.
The one where someone is eating
someone else’s flesh:
am I the eaten, the eater, the one
When I wake
all of me aches.
The one where I run
block after block
glass nails shark teeth
I wear only my socks.
You, in the far distance,
arrange and rearrange luggage
from the trunk to the backseat.
I never arrive.
The one I just woke from:
the apartment on fire,
the things you left flaming,
your chapstick, your newspaper,
your poems, the flowers,
the whole room is on fire,
my bed is burning all around me, I am heaving
for air, more air, any air, I am shouting “fire”
to warn you, I am reaching
for your bare shoulder
Copyright © 2014
Kathleen Boyle has recently published poems in Zyzzyva, Poet Lore, and the Bellingham Review. She lives in San Francisco and is completing her MFA at San Francisco State.
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