the girl with the moon under her skirt
it’s only when I see the women with the moon hidden under her skirt that I realize I don’t really know what she looks like although I do know that she has the moon under there.
it’s like going home to a home you used to live in and strangers live there and it smells wrong and you want to say things to them like “do you want to know what we did with the bodies”.
instead it forms, half-smiling, kissing the top of the hill on hayes street.
the girl with the moon under her skirt hangs a new man on her arm. you mark this on your calendar and they direct deposit it into your bank account pointing towards a pension in your pocket. all your money is on file somewhere with the astronomer’s reports, they’ve figured out its missing and start asking everyone where it is. when they get to you they ask the cramp in your leg, but the cramp says nothing so they ask your broken left foot who you’ve name hermann. hermann claims ignorance even though he knows, even though hermann is a time bomb sent to blow up the planet, although he wavers on that. poor broken hermann.
when the pictures come back from the space probe the astronomers can’t tell that the moon is hidden under her skirt. they do see the low-cut tops she sometimes wears, they catch her being herself which most pictures fail to lasso, they have figured out her orbits, where she goes on vacations. you sidle up to her in one of these photos and say “let’s get out of here”. she nods, she glows, she lays face down when she sleeps, a cat on the bed, a discothèque behind her eyes, an empty feeling commute, a view only blocks away and people find themselves without us no matter how much we wonder why.
it’s like going home to a home you used to live in and strangers live there and it smells wrong and you want to say things to them like “do you want to know what we did with the bodies”.
instead it forms, half-smiling, kissing the top of the hill on hayes street.
the girl with the moon under her skirt hangs a new man on her arm. you mark this on your calendar and they direct deposit it into your bank account pointing towards a pension in your pocket. all your money is on file somewhere with the astronomer’s reports, they’ve figured out its missing and start asking everyone where it is. when they get to you they ask the cramp in your leg, but the cramp says nothing so they ask your broken left foot who you’ve name hermann. hermann claims ignorance even though he knows, even though hermann is a time bomb sent to blow up the planet, although he wavers on that. poor broken hermann.
when the pictures come back from the space probe the astronomers can’t tell that the moon is hidden under her skirt. they do see the low-cut tops she sometimes wears, they catch her being herself which most pictures fail to lasso, they have figured out her orbits, where she goes on vacations. you sidle up to her in one of these photos and say “let’s get out of here”. she nods, she glows, she lays face down when she sleeps, a cat on the bed, a discothèque behind her eyes, an empty feeling commute, a view only blocks away and people find themselves without us no matter how much we wonder why.
posted by gradylove at 2:52 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home