Photo by Raul Cacho
Blood Moon
Kendall J. Aufmuth
It’s almost December,
as the grass beneath the chapel
burns my naked feet.
People are gathered in pockets,
friends laughing and leaning in
to each other with hunched shoulders,
almost-lovers, brushing hands
for a moment before melting
back inside themselves to hide.
The moon isn’t half as big
as we heard it would be,
but there’s something about it–
a red light in the distance,
holding our attention like
an anchor in the sky.
It’s so far from this world
yet so close to this life.
We’re all seeking infinity,
wrapping ourselves up in the night.
The answers to questions
we feel but can’t name.
Something is missing.
All has been lost.
When we speak to each other
the words pass straight through to purgatory.
These days they say we’re only
coding and selfish genes.
In twenty years will I remember
wishing to pinch the moon
between my two fingers,
holding it steady while life shakes the sky?
Kendall J. Aufmuth
It’s almost December,
as the grass beneath the chapel
burns my naked feet.
People are gathered in pockets,
friends laughing and leaning in
to each other with hunched shoulders,
almost-lovers, brushing hands
for a moment before melting
back inside themselves to hide.
The moon isn’t half as big
as we heard it would be,
but there’s something about it–
a red light in the distance,
holding our attention like
an anchor in the sky.
It’s so far from this world
yet so close to this life.
We’re all seeking infinity,
wrapping ourselves up in the night.
The answers to questions
we feel but can’t name.
Something is missing.
All has been lost.
When we speak to each other
the words pass straight through to purgatory.
These days they say we’re only
coding and selfish genes.
In twenty years will I remember
wishing to pinch the moon
between my two fingers,
holding it steady while life shakes the sky?