The Girl and The Moon
There was a girl
Standing at the edge of the river,
looking at the ripples that cast shadows on the sun.
She wore a sweater that unraveled
with every breath and her jeans were tightly stitched.
Her hair was pale and her mouth was thin, pressed shut with all the things
she just wants to scream.
She went fishing often but never used any bait just
the needle and pierced through all the plastic just
bobbing along and kept them
so they wouldn’t tie themselves to a passing fish.
She had ink on her fingers and smudges on her glasses
she said they helped her see clearer.
She was graceful and her
voice was dreamy—except for when it wasn’t
when she ran towards a group of boys—
Loose jeans and baggy shirts
who were cornering a girl, or
when a small boy fell right
in front of her, face bruised and
dripping red, no then
then she puffed up, stalked like a tiger, voice like a knife
She is stretched thin, always running and
at night, she is curled up in her window
the fractured reflection staring
at her and she whispers
“I’d like to go to the moon, it’s
gravity, or lack, would send me
high” and she falls asleep, cheek squished against
glass and the moon’s light threading through her hair.
