On going to the moon
I've published a new collection of poems, so I thought I'd share one from the book here.
This poem is called Only twelve men have ever walked on the moon and one of them was allergic to moondust - probably my longest ever poem title (so far). The poem is about societal expectations, the adversarial nature of hetrosexual intimacy, and the ways billionaires seem to be trying to go to the moon rather than seeking to forge connections with the people around them.
I wrote it in response to a prompt from my poetry writing group, and the theme was the haibun, a type of poetic form that uses haiku and prose poetry to create something with a conversational tone between the lyrical and the prosaic.
Only twelve men have ever walked on the moon and one of them was allergic to moondust
Imagine striving skyward, only for your destination to so thoroughly reject you. Imagine seeing it as a challenge, as particles catch in your throat. Nose streaming like the tail of Haley’s comet, eyes rubbed raw against the weight of your own hubris. It smells of gunpowder – the moondust – as if space herself was incendiary, and a single sneeze would set light to the stars.
These skies burn slowly,
ransacked by reckless fingers
the colour of dust.
They sell moondust online now – mushrooms and coffee beans, ground to a fine paste – for mood enhancement, productivity and weight-loss. Making us smaller, sweeter, safer to touch. I wonder if I could subsist on gunpowder, rub it into my gums before the morning commute, its bitterness filling me with the volatility my parents always warned against.
My body as moon,
a loveless agitation,
ignited from dust.
No woman has ever set foot on the moon. This is not an accident. They know we would devour it, take all that flint and fire into ourselves, burn the midnight sky, banish the shadows that do not serve us. We’d ingest moondust and embody anaphylaxis, send the earth sneezing, spiralling into something less stable. Safer. For us.
Through a darker lens,
our safety is relative
and fleeting as dust.
These days, I take my cues from the moon, daub my décolletage with dust to ward off unwanted affection. Red rashes rise, shame their arrogant skin. I am all at once sick of neglect and attention – my wages suppressed, my voice muted by propriety, my body a vessel for other people’s ambitions – while men fly their phallic shuttles, try to conquer the lunar surface. Not daring to take off their helmets, knowing she would kill them with a single, foolish breath.
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| Image via Unsplash.com |
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