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Because We’ve Landed on the Moon but Nobody Wants to Live There
Someone’s got to stand at the door waving, then busy up the empty house, clear the table, dishes,
her face. Someone’s got to wash away that smear of relief and regret.
Someone has to keep the birds in check, break a few speckled eggs, then cry
as if it were all a cruel mistake. Because the eggs are ruined. Because we never get back
that feeling of lying in the grass, breathing in the soft earth and the whole of summer before us.
We love celebration, the smell of fireworks, but we work too long and forget to pick up milk.
We don’t notice or agree. And it’s too easy to hit someone’s hand with a ruler. And a hundred times is too many. We need to forge a different taste, give it a name and shape,
then send an arrow through it. So we can hold each other. So the phoebe can re-use its nest.
So the flowers can bloom. So the loyal dog can travel half a continent and return home,
limping and proud. So conversation can be more palatable than absence—like cotton candy—
sweet, and then nothing. Even so, it anchors us when we think we might blow away.
Amy Dryansky
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:hi:
RL
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