Anita Olivia Koester

Cocoon on the Moon

 

We ambled along, man and woman, left alone on the moon.
Combatted the earth's tides, by skipping a stone on the moon.

Back to our commuter lives, our computer communications,
where one can't even describe the maniacal moans of the moon.

The apartment begins its diurnal undressing to shift from day to night.
Apollo, the dog, whining as he remembers his throne on the moon.

Boyfriend number 12 leaves permanently when I buy an antique painting.
Perfectly accurate, three hundred dollars exhausted on this acetone of the moon.

Nina Simone groans as I watch the needle trace over the 31 scratches
on my inherited record, thinking, this must be the tone of the moon.

Attempting to unfold my now vintage childhood McNally map of perfect love,
so dry, it disintegrates as I try to read what is actually known of the moon.

From memory, I repeat the names of the craters we slept in—Clavius and Copernicus
only to feel the weight of the words, even lighter than gravestones on the moon.

"In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing", an aria in The Waste Land.
There is no grass, no flora nor fauna, only we were grown on the moon.

The guests deplane, begin their slow pilgrimage into the whitened wood.
I send my prayers up, that your wedding might be postponed by the moon.

Your mirror taunts me into discussions on my eyes becoming craters,
I insisted it stop casting my skin in the grey-tones of the moon.

With the salted moondust of retiring emotions, I take one last journey up,
hurl Murakami into space and dislodge my sit-bones from the moon.

The letter in the time capsule stated—Dear Future Anita, by the time
you read this, you will probably have children of your own on the moon
.

 

                        First appearance in the chapbook Marco Polo,
                        published by Hermeneutic Chaos Press