Poetry | Ecopoetics
The Moon Masters All
A Poem.
if there is a god will it ever die? Wallace & i were discussing the recent UFO footage released by the Pentagon at the kitchen table. i lugged my desk chair to the table for the sake of my posture & as Wallace went on, i drank a cold brew in a purple mug & ate breakfast at noon. my Mother was off in the distance dusting a fan with a leaf blower, she was not a fan of the idea that dust was, in fact, particles of dead skin cells & that the fan blew them back at her when she turned it on at night. it makes her sneeze. does that mean we’re allergic to the dead parts of ourselves? it dawned on me that i had a lot of dead parts — for one, i missed my ex-lover & second, i longed to go outside, to walk barefoot in the green grass, feel the soil between my toes… death comes in all shapes and forms. the burning California sun had turned the dirt to dust. there were no worms & there were no purple flowers for bees to swarm. it’s a shame because it’s the middle of spring but i had to remind myself that we did not water the plants because Nana said she was trying conserve water so now all our plants are dried & decorative sticks for stones. i frowned, are we still in a drought? i tried to listen to music for hours in an attempt to drown out my therapist’s advice. she says i have a reluctance to accept things as they are. her last name is Moon & for whatever reason, the last time i saw her, she wore a deep emerald gown & her wild, red hair was tied down in a low bun like a woman in an art deco painting. the moon told me that i should try to focus on one thing at a time. but her emerald green reminded me of the trees & her hair set the forest ablaze. ironic that she is called moon but her cranium is fiery. tarot says the moon is overwhelmed by emotion. i wonder if her thoughts are hot-tempered. water and fire — natural opposites — yet she tells me to stay grounded because my head is in the clouds.
Thank you for reading.
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