Because only 59%
of the moon’s surface is visible
from Earth, I hide

a garage full
of toasters, bookshelves,
mirrors, bathtubs,

even a staircase
I can no longer use
on the far side.

A secret language
only women understand—
only in rhythmic gulps—

is spoken here.
And I’m not so sorry
it doesn’t translate.

Here, where war
always derives
from worse.