On the Issue of Lunar Trash
Dear moon, forgive us the tie tack, the falcon feather.
Forgive us the golden olive branch. Our wish for peace
is our wish, not yours. You had peace, and now you have
an olive branch. Moon, what will you do with our hundred
two-dollar bills? Moon, forgive us the watchband. The hammer.
The Bible, as if you’re the one seeking your own source.
All the cameras. All the antennae. The nail clippers.
Oh moon, you’re literally holding our shit — we couldn’t
be bothered to cart it back to our own atmosphere.
Moon, once we stabbed a flag into you, as if you loved
our country, any country. You were absence of color and then
we pocked you all silver and red and blue. You were stillness
and then we kicked up dust that had never known anything’s kick.
Moon, once all our wreckage was a world away, and then
we appeared with our tripods and canisters, our larks
and catchphrases. I think, moon, that you must hate us.
Your molten mantle must roil, your iron core seethe.
You crest the dark sky over my house and your face
looks the worst kind of disappointed, like a mother when
her children have bloodied each other’s tender bodies.
Moon, say it’s all right. Say you understand. Look at me —
freighting you with a mouth I’ve invented just so I can hear it
say forgive. Oh moon, say you’ll forgive me for that, too.
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