The moon heals nothing.
Rising from the trees over a thousand small countries,
The same blank stare.
I’m sitting in the park, watching it climb above the oaks,
While the boys limp from the football field,
Mothers tapping their phones—
The moon would love us all if it could.
I remember a French film I once saw,
Falling gracefully into bullets,
While women swabbed their eyes in the dark.
I left the theater and drove to Leala’s house.
When she came from the bathroom,
Thin and pale, nervous
And lovely, condom in her hand,
I leaned on an elbow.
She was like the moon
Over the mosque in Córdoba,
Rising in the black sky,
Above a man playing a cello,
The orange blossoms on the plaza
Breathing into the night,
Flagstones glowing beneath his feet.
Sean Patrick Hill is the author of Hibernaculum (Slash Pine Press, 2013) as well as The Imagined Field and Interstitial. His poems have recently appeared in Fourteen Hills, Blackbird, Smartish Pace, and Sixth Finch. An MFA graduate of Warren Wilson College, he received the Al Smith Fellowship from the Kentucky Arts Council, as well as fellowships and grants from the Vermont Studio Center and Elizabeth George Foundation. He lives in Louisville, Kentucky.
|Gary L. McDowell|
|Julie Marie Wade|
|Sean Patrick Hill|
|Tina Brown Celona|