Poem: The Reason The Moon Moves

 In ALIVE, Poetry

I’ve sat beside her. I’ve learned her name.
When Genevieve was only six her father
died one evening. An electric storm cloud
swallowed her lunchbox. Neighbor children
buried her shoes.

I was born in 1979. I had very few
delicate baby outfits. My attentions
were coolly divided between a hunger
for truth and a taste for toppings.
A lack of quality opera lyrics

brought me to a standstill. Trains fled
the town of thought; my legs ached
a static madness. I saw a girl skipping
down the road after scrawling a mean graffiti.
The same song, the same song

played the day I lost her. Doors closed
a dusty room the night had flickered
open. Having much in common
as daughters go, we learned new alleys.

She took my side. Walls constructed
of lettered red would watch us cry
in the moonlight, if given the chance, if given
a reason, which, my friends, they were not.


Photo by Attilio D’Agostino, Red Wing, Minnesota

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