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A Moon Can Look at a PoetEveryone writes about Moons.But moons are bored of us women, Us leaky, lunar in our seasonal swing, our wax and wane and silky pumps that gleam moonshine on to dance floor and back again. Click up your heels, you slick mooned woman, Ride a Cock Moon to Banbury bush. Serve moons au gratin, moons and rice, dip the moon lightly in Wasabi and breathe fiery moon breaths. For once, be moon. Moon all the way. Say nothing you mean. Shift like sand. Change daily. Wear different bracelets every hour. Look for silver in the cereal box. Wear your beauty in quarter phases. Buy three silk scarves. Talk moonwise on a street corner, and be in just enough danger. Be heart pounding and dry mouthed alive in a crescent way. Shine like the sun taught you, backwards and back at the best man in the room. Mugs of moon juice, lunar drafts, moon on tap, lager moon, moon wine and gibbous tea. The moon shining in day, is tired of reading poems about herself by women, and would rather dress in red and go to bars or the Goddess Cafe for brunch. She'll have huevos rancheros with green chile, too many Bloody Marys, and ride a palomino later if she's not too drunk. Up into the cedar hills she'll go, if a horse could carry a moon and he can, and the moon wants to gallop her wild self out of women's poems anyway. |
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Issue #22/23, October, 2001 :
Santa Fe Poetry Broadside.