Moon I Can’t Touch
I remember it was summer in an empty lot off the East River. You were full. You lit the pebbles around my back. You lit the cranes. His mouth on my shoulder. The backs of our hands as we hovered palms over our pulses. Moon, you were always such an empathetic witness to my mess. Made from damage, too, you are the result of another Earth rolling up its sleeves to sucker-punch ours. The remnants of planets congealing to survive. I wish I could have seen you on the horizon before you bounced light. When you were still rivers made of fire. Now you’re slipping away. One inch every year. I can feel it, even though I can’t touch it. Your advice? I hear it, though I can’t heed it: when he says you are broken, he’s really saying he wants to break you.
Michelle Hulan (she/her) is a poet and writer whose work has appeared or is forthcoming in Chesnut Review, Poet Lore, RHINO, and elsewhere. She received her MA in English from the University of Ottawa and lives in Brooklyn with her family. Follow her on Twitter @michellehulan.