We’ll follow up with bits of crockery, broken
to look like the moon in its crescent phase,
broken to meet our requirements for danger

and sharp edges. We’ll have daily conversations
about the best way to light the space under our feet
in order to see where we’re stepping.

It’ll all be different, without the moon.
There will be so many fragments to sort
and catalogue. We might as well become curators

or people who polish glass for a living.
Lovers will question the idea of balconies.
Others will pocket pieces of the moon to sell

at auction. Lots of people will want
pointless memories, the sound of the ocean,
the way voices soften in moonlight.

We’ll be too busy pulling splinters from our skin
and sucking the wounds. Our mouths will be
hard miracles, stars no longer trusted.


Ann Walters: writes poetry and short fiction. Her work has appeared most recently in Night Train, fourW Twenty, Fifth Wednesday Journal, The Pedestal Magazine, and many others. The recent anthologies Eating Her Wedding Dress and In the Telling included poems by Ann. She is an editor for flashquake. 

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