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December 14, 2016 Poetry

Moon Poems

Leesa Cross-Smith

Moon Poems photo


I can listen to “Thirteen” by Big Star and pretend
I am thirteen back in my flamingo
bedroom and a boy
would come to my window
with paperbacks and lavender cigarettes.

The moon between his teeth—stars
under his tongue.

It's sixteen when I think I want to kiss girls
but I don't—I
just think I think I want to.

A different boy when I am twenty-one and not in
the same bedroom anymore.

I'm in a new bedroom because I married him
and it's his house now, his window.



It's important to know
I got a yellow bluetooth shower speaker
and named it Kip Moore.

I was listening to Drake—
thinking about Drake wearing a thick hooded owl sweatshirt
that smelled like Drake.

I was ovulating under the full strawberry moon.

I always listen to Drake when I ovulate
and Ed Sheeran's acoustic cover of “Trap Queen”
and I always ovulate when the moon is full

and bleed when it is death-darked
and brand new.



Dude you probably smoked
about a billion herbal
real tobacco cigarettes on Sons of Anarchy

You smoked and never ate
I wanted to feed you—

a big, juicy grilled burger medium rare
dos Tecates
that night you went to the hospital all bloody
after shooting that guy
and Tara told you
to clean yourself up.

Spaghetti and meatballs, Chianti
the other night you killed that other guy.
No, the other night.
No, the other guy.

the other one.

Gooey mac and cheese and
any beer but Guinness
the night the Irish
blew up the club.

A double portion of slow-cooked roast beef
with buttery mashed potatoes and sour cream
corn and biscuits
a giant glass of watery ice and limes and lemons
the night you got back on your monster-black motorcycle
after you'd murdered your mother
under the killing moon
and got her rose blood
all over your super-dope super-clean
white Air Force 1s.

Jax for the love of all good things,
you and Tommy Shelby have to
eat something.


image: Aaron Burch