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Poems in Honor of the Full Blue Blood Moon

Moon Spit

I walk the ocean

its total expanse

over every wave and riptide

oil platform and sunken ship

choked gull and diving whale

filled with silver dagger moonlight

        I worship the moon________________________

endowed revolve

cyclical spin pulling oceans toward me

weaving my reflection through sand

tacit voice in the shell

        the moon, my body________________________

one day will decompose

feed ground deeper than the ocean

once Jesus waved his hands over sick bodies

power from his diamond heart admitted

souls to reform, return this time healthy

not quite yet— the soul not entirely gone

twice Jesus waved his hands over dead bodies

and the bodies became alive

not only alive, but same again

        I can believe____________________________

here he ripped souls from heaven

nutrients from ground

I kneel with my hands over her body

first, I move my hands slowly

glide above any heat she could offer

to root warmth back into her through  palms

I move my hands faster waving my

hands like a fool

cutting the air into a million pieces

keeping at this for

complete moon cycles

rings on trees and satellite tails

waving like a lunatic

like plucking a zither in crescendo

until plastic rots

sweating, dripping

I fall into the ocean

drown as salt barnacles to my lungs


Luna Communicate

After three full moons, my grandfather
pulls from his Bible the pink, laminated bookmark of her obituary.
Compares its hues to his deep purple wine
and the wine to the sugarcane overgrowth in the yard.

He takes me outside to show me the moon.
Again, it is waning.
He cups my hair
like folding water and kisses it.

In his yard he is a pagan.
He sets down a stone kettle
under the moonlit tatters of the fig tree.
Buries the stone’s cold feet in the crabgrass
to keep as a marker for the coming iron fire pit.

Once the penumbra passes
he will hold a fire gallery—
burn her notes, her journals,
burn everything she ever, even once, touched.
There, he says, the alignment is perfect

to burst open the Aries fire inside
the sugarcane stalks when the moon rays hit.
Sweet smoke canoeing
toward my drunken grandfather’s nostrils.
His mountain eyes in the pleats of fire.
The sugarcane goddess wafts
on sweet smoke, the wife

when she dies, she suffocated. His wife,
her blood was
is, saturated sugar
in red wine, sugar.

Once he held a holy chapel in his hands
the steeple, open the doors
the perfect alignment of fingerprints and palm lines
to follow a heart’s center into the deep dirt.

At least here, he yells, the moon comes home to me.
Two more glasses of wine, and I will pray.


Moon Spit first appeared in Lime Hawk Literary Arts Collective, established in 2013 as a group of storytellers, artists, and activists committed to promoting social change through the written and performing arts.

Luna Communicate first appeared in The Fem, an inclusive and intersectional feminist literary magazine.


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