Sarah Frances Moran is a writer, editor, animal lover, video gamer, queer Latinx. She resides in Texas with her partner and their chihuahuas. Her chapbook Evergreen is available from Weasel Press.
23 La luna ("the moon")
The moon was absent the night we watched
Pollox and Caster. It was more than a normal
absence. It was purposeful. You were all dark
blue and lake water. Fresh air and cool wind
The moon was absent the night I planted a tree.
Felt the deep urge to grow in blackness. To
feed off the hurt. You placed hands in that
charcoal earth, covered and muddied with it like
it was fire. Looking at you drowned in my own
disgust I wanted your hands on me more then.
To feel but not see the way your seared
fingerprints just might replace his.
The moon was absent the night I looked high
cursing everything above me. It felt my anger
and left before the scolding. Left the blame to
the stars and sleeping sun.
The moon was absent the night I found myself.
When significance was pondered and I felt
larger than before. Larger than the sun and all
The moon was absent because there's beauty in
the dark. Knows it's not always needed.
Relished in its pocked scars it has its own abuse.
I want to hold the hands that plant the trees that
grow in nighttime. So they know they aren't
I want to tell the moon I'm sorry, for ever
thinking it couldn't be trusted. That the stars
were enough. That inside them I found her eyes
like diamonds and quicksand.
I'm willingly drowning.
Glass: A Journal of Poetry is published monthly by Glass Poetry Press.
All contents © the author.