I CANNOT USE THE WORD MOON

art by Richard Hanus

by Penelope Ioannou

in this poem out of

respect for the phase

I am going through. I’ve

always wanted a New

England summer with

the weeds and the man

who is by no means

extraordinary grilling

bland burgers on the bbq.

The humidity would be

sufficient and I would

be formidable because I eat

lobsters and think the stupid

corgi is adorable and

use this man for his boat

or his body or his

stainless steel pan.

I am happy in this scenario

a sea snake, languid and liquid

and predatory in a tub of

glitter and water, and because

this man considers grilling burgers

a quiet act of heroism he doesn’t

notice my red beak,

my open brain,

the fungi erecting monuments

into the miniscule dark.

This is the empire of corn,

of buoys out in the bloody sea

and the only man I truly

ever loved is in someone else’s

sheets kicking sand off the bed

and the utility pole

outside this other woman’s

window is our sole means

of communication. The sky wears

the sun like a red medallion and

I am truly and significantly alone

and all of this is ruined because

I see the moon

the moon

the moon

the moon

the moon

the moon

the moon

wearing the dark like a sock

---