Untitled with a line from Etel Adnan

“There was indeed the death of birds / the moon had passed away.” – Etel Adnan

The moon had passed away. A soldier shot it down. The moon was not murdered. The Times told us so. Milk spilled from the sky and the people were starving so they drank from it. They bled starlight and the Post said how dare they glow. The street looked like a carcass. A soldier burned the bones. The people missed their children so they threw ash to the sky and called flight burial. The BBC said the moon was a madman. And how dare they mimic flying. And how dare they litter a warzone. And how dare they ask for a burial. We were at a loss for light, not words—we had those. Misused them. Then again, the writers all got killed. Then again, the Times said the writers were madmen, thousands of little moons, milking the dark for light. And who was god to play god? Turning Lot’s wife to salt for witness? Then again maybe god got tired. Then again maybe god said we didn’t deserve the moon. The people wrote names on their children. We all became Lot’s wife looking. Then again, we lived til morning. Then again, the people did not. We argued so much that we begged: let them live. Then again, we were naive to beg for children. The President told us so. So we all went out and bought watermelons. Never wrote of the moon again. For months we fell in love with any stranger who said it’s wrong to kill a child. We fell in love with so few strangers.