the moon
is a black girl with an arm
that knows the twist and give
of an indian burn from boys
she doesn’t know.
of course,
she is so sick with love
for the evading sun, she
has made an athleticism out
of her endurance.
none of us ever bother to ask her
how she feels.
the moon’s name is not Luna.
it is some oasis of tar, a
sweet stuckness that we
could never get out correctly
and in one piece so why
should she give it to us?
the moon eats
hot cheetos and pickles for breakfast.
doesn’t give a fuck what
you
have to say about that
the moon wears wigs,
weaves, braids, everything
you’ve seen on a
white model on a red carpet
and chose
to stay quiet about.
the moon will kick your ass
if you do not continue to stay quiet
when it comes to what
she wears, does, sees—
has no time for your selective outrage
your performative activism
your missy-anning or your whitesplaining
the moon is too busy giving
the moon is guiding her people to freedom
sheltering a young couple from the pain
of yesterday
the moon is the sole proprietor of empathy
it was her hand combing the
hair of my empty-handed mother
when her stress cleansed the earth
of my brother and the baby before him
the moon
held my mother’s hand
passed her tissues
convinced her to get up &
go out that night
& they danced
until my mother
was smiling again
they danced
for every day the moon
choked on the dark &
came out new & blood red & panting
they danced
until the sun could no longer
stand it & stomped outside
with his hose on full blast, determined
to crater the noise away.