Because the moon makes people crazy.
From now on I just want them to be
crazy about my hair.
I’m gonna redecorate my healing spaces
so they’re ready for sophisticated guests.
I’m thinking granite. I’m thinking beige.
Copper fixtures will enhance the beauty
of my sink.
I’m gonna wash that moon right out of my hair
because a woman’s hair is a metaphor
for her life, and I am taking hold
of the steering wheel
of my hair.
I’m gonna wash that moon right out of my dreams
by purchasing light-blocking curtains.
The moon won’t be back in my bedroom
any time soon, I tell the Target cashier,
but I can see she’s still caught up
in the moon thing.
I’m gonna wash that moon that calls itself
a male deity, a female deity, a water deity,
a world-wide deity. The moon wants to have it
every which way.
—Stop texting the moon, I tell my friends.
—Stop going for coffee where you think
the moon will be, they tell me.
The moon inspires lunar fancies, but not
every woman has a flame to turn
her body into a volcano.
You have to watch what you wish for.
That was me spewing lava that day.
I sent ash clouds to the edge
of animated radar screens.
Everyone knows it. Everyone’s seen
the treetops burn. Happy Harvest
I don’t know if I can dig those cities out
or that house with the ungrounded
electric outlets. The landlord
called it spark.
Maybe it wasn’t the right neighborhood
for me. I’m just so over everyone
I loved. I’m trying to uphold
the fine suede social fabric
of this couch.