The Moon Is A Black Girl & You Don’t Deserve Her

by Khalypso

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


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.