Northern_Lights_2017

30 Ode to a Borrowed Moon Erin Noehre My messes are swollen. And the ink won’t dry. I’m beating the cast until the gifts of you flow more subtle Like how I want them to, In gauzy-warm light. In sedated heat. In muted temptations and out-of-order confessions. Bookmark my caverns. Don’t read them yet. I’ve been dog-eared into believing moon-spiracies such as: She is much more than my knowledge of phosphorescence, Much heavier now, too, than saltwater tears. Which she heaves back and back. And no one thought to ask her If those tides feel any harsher when you’re the one polishing them. Can waves undo into granite? What does it mean to tug white laces Into seams--sea mischief-- And not ever feel clean? Once a spent wish. One wash missed. Materiel metaphysic. The time that slithers Down rivers That quarrelsome venus. That God-less thing taking up my unity; That Moon. Who is nothing but bashings of the non-empirical. The spasms of literal meanings and univocal God-talk. Spitting up her moonbeams and subduing tittering edges Love, I know you see her edges mince and morate. Making my mastication much more than I’m searching for More than those three ounces of ocean washing up your nose More than a mimsy of monotheistic makings More than a hundred of these turn-about friends More than those creaking seconds of how long can you hold your breaths One one-thousand Two one-thousand Four.