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Prompt: “Our (optional, as always) prompt for the day is taken from one of the prompts that Kwoya Fagin Maples suggests in here interview: a poem that addresses the future, answering the questions “What does y(our) future provide? What is your future state of mind? If you are a citizen of the “union” that is your body, what is your future “state of the union” address?” Happy writing!”
The Man, the Woman, the Moon
Violence is blue
at your fingertips, each syllable lost
in its floral garb.
Casually, you ask whose death
I prefer, mine
or my children’s. Not yours,
though both of us know
the answer. It’s midnight. The room
swims with shadows.
The curtains hide nothing from the moon.
You’re here, a feral
part of you, the others too drained
to fight its arrival.
You survey my bones, the delicate
fusion of nerve and sinew,
the clammy skin that holds me together
a little while longer.
That window is always open.
. Each night, they break language: sharp,
. jagged sounds. Each night, his
. fingers, long as a pianist’s, press
. the ruined keyboard
. of her body.
. He makes his music
. that always requires pain.
. ‘Art is born of suffering,’ he tells her.
‘So suffer. Give me my magnum opus.’
People see what they want to see. No one asks questions. I’ve told her to leave, more than once. She keeps coming back. We’re one. We must be. There’s no choice. We never had a choice. Wherever she goes, I go. This room might be our last. I give her the moon.
. He tells her she’s always the one to follow
. and she believes. He’s never fed up
. with the music. It grows
. louder, more
. He sleeps
. better for it.
Next to him, she holds
. a pillow in her hands.
He secretly hopes she’d go through with it.
Had I not been a mere lump of rock, I would hope, too.
constellations of freckles,
You kiss them. You tell me
There are some tears.
and I’m not. I watch the moon
rise toward the eaves.
It shudders, slides back into the groove
it already knows,
rises again a little bit farther.
Even the moon
has a hard time leaving.
jumps across the chasm
of years, to some
future you, still young and angelic,
Dorian Gray, no vice,
scarring your face as you slice
a meandering path
through someone else’s life.
And I see myself
cratered, pockmarked, waxing
ascending slowly, surely into
an endless sky.