Worm Moon
She sees the moon as her own retina. Galaxies
are her eyes. She wakes with a coyote
claw whipping into her mouth.
Wind cannot move the moon
that hooks the edge of her blind.
She tastes the dirt inside
the ridged keratin, the bone
of bleached knuckle. Sucks her lip—
a worm between her teeth. Spits.
Things sing in the stubborn trees.
Vernal pools spawn hysterical quacks.
Ducks or frogs? Their rituals
urge her through mud season, fog sizzling
in the pan at dawn. Nothing that hides
can be frazzled, her own body fuzzy
as it thaws. Mist clings in her branches.
She’s dripping. Leaves tracks she doesn’t recognize.
She’s got her own claws. Who’ll hear
her howl tonight and wonder
where the woman went? Anyone
studying the moon could find her.
In a dream of what-ifs
I’m the only one left
on earth. The waves
have all gone home.
The mountains are trees
with awkward smiles.
Majestic springs screwed
and bowlegged as a singer’s
signature. Poof. I’m
falling through the spermy
air. Cars are empty. Care
is a white stripe in black hair
at the microphone. Baby,
I’m on my own. The last
in a book of matches.
Jessica Purdy holds an MFA from Emerson College. She is the author of STARLAND and Sleep in a Strange House (Nixes Mate, 2017 and 2018), The Adorable Knife (Grey Book Press, 2023), and You’re Never the Same (Seven Kitchens Press). Her poems and micro-fiction have been nominated for Best New Poets, Best of the Net, and Best Micro-Fiction. Her poetry appears in Gargoyle, About Place, On the Seawall, Radar, The Night Heron Barks, and SoFloPoJo.
Comments