Issue 157, Winter 2000
Maybe the moon is made of ice, not cheese,
And that's why it's so frightening.
Though on a warm night,
A summer night, it seems to smell like cheese
And offer us the comforts of its homeliness,
Grinning or moaning, looming,
Until the heart is stupid and cries,
"I love you, I want you, I need you .
I forget how it goes, but I'll remember:
It was like sunburned skin loaded with lotions
And still a little salty. Ice, I think,
And volcanic debris, like a face
Impossible to touch, kiss or see
Can haunt anyone. Moon, I think I met you.
I think you said, "Don't stand there
Gawking like a stalled comet. I know
What I am. You figure it out. Do something
Magical or disappear, you inadequate
Astronaut, you lunatic." Which was when
Moonlight turned me around and hit me.