According to Lacey, the moon’s a paper donkey
on which humanity pins its desires & we’d buckle
under longing if it didn’t bear the weight.
These last two weeks, stupefied by a lemon wedge
garnishing my windshield or an axe blade risen above silos,
I’ve observed how the moon orbits earth at 2,288 mph,
a fact I’d taken for granted most of my life. Our bodies
melded into a rocket ship &, later, she recalled
how she used to spread supine on the carpet & kick at the air,
as if, forgotten by gravity, ceiling became floor. Wonder
buoyed our optimism, she maintains, the night absent lunar light,
& I don’t disagree; on the lawn, we sob
like shipwrecked tourists. The marble bowling ball teeters,
curtained by shadow. We beg it not to tumble out of the sky.
efedisenio