CHLOE MARTINEZ
The Moon
If we can put a man on the moon,
surely we can figure this out.
Weekly poems, selected by the editors. Featuring new work as well as poems from our rich archives.
If we can put a man on the moon,
surely we can figure this out.
I was gripped
by a thrifty pathology
I am sick of these weeping half-days
that come out of the past—
I’ve forgotten what’s in the boxes
I markered with my name
All my life I’ve wanted
to be called in from the shore.
Actually, it was more like a horse galloping
towards you, another thing I’ve never heard
I was once-tadpole: water-breath, tailed, morphing
We scroll pages
as if scanning thickets
Is the blood moon stuffing ballots
into the low firs?
When I came downstairs today
for breakfast, he was playing Lovely Day.