Ours Is Not the Only Moon

My parents and sisters
transform into clown imposters
one sinister night
I survive as a child.

Chasing the meaning
hidden in delusion
gives me incurable kinetosis.

I will be the stowaway
who tucks herself
into another snow globe
before another trip

ready to be the souvenir
you always wanted
to regift

five times. I will eventually land
on a window sill
where I must combat barbaric glass
for the bird’s attention.

We did this to ourselves
says no cat
or dog anywhere.

Private property signs
don’t apply
on Mars. Born on a Sunday,
I sweat incense

on certain civil twilights
when the sky misses
its moon.

Another drinking fountain
bubbles over the edge
of night when thirst ravages
absolute darkness.

A plane takes off from LaGuardia,
falls apart over Philadelphia.
I will never live

in the same state
as my rapist again. He’s yours,
Ohio. The river’s not so angry.

The lake spells beauty
in it steel-colored waves.
90 miles out, I’m 90 miles out
and counting down.

That pedestrian bridge sings
the same song
no matter which direction

you to choose
to take. The fetus
had a gender
but no handedness yet.

I remember
those Manhattan rooftop parties
on hot summer nights

in the 80s
when everything
was between
shadow and light.

I will walk away from this
echo chamber when the island can
float on its own.

No agent will have us.
We poets are on our own—repurposed

from beer cans and wine corks
and pieces of wood
stolen from a fainting couch

we forgot
we sold
to the man
during the fifth depression.

No cure for solipsism
is engraved
on the bottom

of each mug
we drink from
when we drink

Neptune’s largest moon
gives us mermaids a run
for our barnacled money

as he blasts his conch trumpet.
He thinks he steals the show.
But no loudmouth fish husband
can ruin us this way. Sailor beware.

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