Born and raised in rural Nevada, Rachel Ronquillo Gray is a Kundiman, Pink Door, and VONA fellow. Her work appears in Tinderbox Poetry, Hyphen Magazine, Tahoma Literary Review, Digging Through the Fat, Radar Poetry, Winter Tangerine Review, and other places. She currently lives, writes, and makes food in Bloomington, Indiana.




Rachel Ronquillo Gray

Girl as Full Moon



I want to kill off my desires, or they will haunt me, a horizon of yellow moons sagging with want. & I want so much: brooding tide, cave echo, dirt starlit road, open mouth kiss, hand fisted in tangles. Sometimes, a moon is just a moon. An eclipse is just an eclipse, not light reversed. Sometimes, light doesn’t reveal anything, but blinds us. South of my mouth, some say I am like the moon, full of light and meaning and life that I never wanted. Sometimes, a womb is just a womb. Why can’t I be just a girl, mostly blood & salt, obsidian & air. Isn’t that life anyway.




Glass: A Journal of Poetry is published monthly by Glass Poetry Press.
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