On the Issue of Lunar Trash

Catherine Pierce

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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