Letters

The day after the new moon we remembered to write on napkins and burn away the past. I wrote how a place can change in no time and both of them wrote how much we crave a definition of self inside the bounds of dim lights in a lower east side club— But we remembered nothing lives except in wisps of smoke, in ash and singe. We burned away those futures on the sidewalk, and the city whirred. It hasn’t even noticed yet, but we remembered and we hit our heels on the concrete. We make our own shapes.

I tried writing a poem. I tried writing a letter.

I wanted to tell the world why the moon waxes. I wanted the whites of my eyes to mold into words.

So I cried onto small sheets of paper. So I bled through all of the lines.

In the end, nothing worked and I was left with with my hips

swaying. I was still alone under the crescent. I was with everyone

growing in the dark.

*****A part of my moon ritual for 2021 Super Pink Moon was looking back on old poem fragments, not to edit or change them, but to recognize the value in them. It's powerful to be guided by the moon back in time, to recognize my growth but also to honor the person I was when I wrote these poems. Check out my profile for more Poem Fragments for the Pink Moon!*****