Were You On the Moon
by Brynna Williams
Phoenix: Fall 2018

You have to wake up sometime.
That’s what I’d like to say to myself,
but it’s so peaceful to sleep.
Warm hands on my back,
the moment I open my eyes,
will feather into wings, birds,
fly into the sun
and leave me freezing.
If I wake up,
I’ll have to abandon the stars
I’ve been camping between,
that tent made of crystal dust,
the sleeping bag stuffed with tears.
I can’t stay here forever,
and I know it,
but I still have to.
All this time,
I’ve been swallowing spoonfuls of you,
trying to keep that taste tucked in my cheeks,
to line the backs of my teeth,
dye my tongue your favorite shade of blue,
but it just won’t stick.
There are so few moments left,
and I can’t help but be aware
I’m the sand in the hourglass,
slipping back through to the other side,
no hands to hold on.
One more turn around the moon;
I thought I’d make it in time,
but there were footprints in that green-gray dirt,
tiny beside the craters,
with clouds hovering above them
of that very same dirt,
perfectly still,
as if they’d
just been
left.

Artwork: "Random Weave" by Dana Potter and Lila Shull