We believe in the fullness of moons,
in their ability to draw blood from women
and change men into rabid dogs.
Something about the full-moon dusk
changes the dust here, turns it to curtains—
a marbled mirk in endless augury,
a sheet sidling through fields
where coyotes bow their heads
and sheared cornstalks stand vigil-like.
Come daylight, we watch birds
throw themselves aloft, droves swimming
over their giant, amorphous shadow.
This building is where we’re tended to—
those of us who know we are nothing more
than exactly what we always thought.
It’s not a reminder to others of their fate,
not a cruel joke or a relativist’s whim.
We’ve been nursed with patient fluids
that bide their time in our veins. We swell and stew
and knit our memories like death shrouds.
Ask us anything and we’ll answer.
What is the Platonic form for nostalgia?
It is a cloak falling through the ocean
without ever finding the seafloor.
Do we really believe all that stuff about the moon?
If every excruciating exaggeration
written about the moon came true,
then no one would be in this building tonight.
Where would we be?
We’d play Red Rover in our white gowns,
summoning each other to come on over.
We’d emerge from the dark,
rearing up, one by one,
ready to break the chain of hands.