I've been thinking about moon rocks.
Are they dark gray like the walls of your bedroom?
Silver like the cuffs you gave me
back when I loved chokers and cuffs?
These days I don't even wear scarves anymore.
What do moon rocks remember, when they think back?
Harsh white, like a cop's flashlight
shining in the driver's side window of their memories?
Or endless darkness, a constant turning way
the way you used to do once you'd decided to move on?
I wonder, what if I had built a circle of moon rocks
on the table underneath a calendar for the year 1996?
A circle of salt keeps negative spirits at bay, but
I wanted you to stay. like a fluorescent star on a ceiling
or a passage in a gnostic gospel that only poets ever memorize.
What happened to the moon rocks, I wonder?
Are they the kissing cousins of spring tulips or bright pansies
in some retired NASA wonk's side garden?
Or do they sit forever in a silent room like bus station ghosts,
with no ticket home, feeling melancholy and missing it all
even though it was nothing but rocks and dust, bright light and darkness?
rocks as witnesses to light and darkness, to contact and abandonment. love it. The leap from lunar geology to intimate history is fantastic.
ReplyDeleteSuperbly crafted, soft and musical, and full of that backwards look at the past that brings a mist to the eye. I especially love the second and third stanzas, and the last line stabs to the heart.
ReplyDeleteBeautiful, with a sense of nostalgia that gives me a pang. Also, any tender reference to the 90s works for me!
ReplyDeleteMoon rocks. Only you could make them weep, Shay. Or is it me?
ReplyDelete