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.

Also by Sarah Frances Moran: Evergreen I Am a Terrorist La Bella Muerte

Sarah Frances Moran

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 breeze. 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 constellations. 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 alone. 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.
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