Because the Moon Is a Cliché & Not Exactly Steadfast

Amy Dryansky

Moon, hearts, stars, flowers.

All of the above. And by above I mean where the stars are pinned, winking as they burn.

Because I’m not allowed to talk to the moon anymore.

Because the moon has amnesia. A sideways smile that always becomes a blind eye.

The moon is a recurring mistake, history’s dumb rotation.

If you’re going to touch me that way, I want you to look at me.

If you’re going to touch me. Which we’ve agreed will never happen.

But let’s say I could address you. Let’s say a rag-rich page lay before me, blank and white

as your deckled skin, and I’m the one in the morning coat, a velvet collar for my chin

to brush against, consumptive quill in my grip, blood spot on my handkerchief.

What would I say to your vacant expanse? Something like, Moon, this time, take me with you

when you go. Or, Moon, are you really that cold?

Isn’t heartache sweet? It tastes of everything you ever wanted. The rain-soaked lilacs

I pressed my face into as a child, knowing, even then, something I needed was there,


If you’re going to touch me, I want you to drink the water from those lilacs.


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