Good Riddance to the Super Moon

… which has been driving me and those I know a little wacky in the past ten days.  Tonight is the last night it has its hold on us.  Prepare to return to “normal.”  In honor, here’s a hate poem to the moon by Brenda Shaughnessy.

“I’m Over the Moon”

 

I don’t like what the moon is supposed to do.

Confuse me, ovulate me,

 

spoon-feed me longing. A kind of ancient

date-rape drug. So I’ll howl at you, moon,

 

I’m angry. I’ll take back the night. Using me to

swoon at your questionable light,

 

you had me chasing you,

the world’s worst lover, over and over

 

hoping for a mirror, a whisper, insight.

But you disappear for nights on end

 

with all my erotic mysteries

and my entire unconscious mind.

 

How long do I try to get water from a stone?

It’s like having a bad boyfriend in a good band.

 

Better off alone. I’m going to write hard

and fast into you moon, face-fucking.

 

Something you wouldn’t understand.

You with no swampy sexual

 

promise but what we glue onto you.

That’s not real. You have no begging

 

cunt. No panties ripped off and the crotch

sucked. No lacerating spasms

 

sending electrical sparks through the toes.

Stars have those.

 

What do you have? You’re a tool, moon.

Now, noon. There’s a hero.

 

The obvious sun, no bulls hit, the enemy

of poets and lovers, sleepers and creatures.

 

But my lovers have never been able to read

my mind. I’ve had to learn to be direct.

 

It’s hard to learn that, hard to do.

The sun is worth ten of you.

 

You don’t hold a candle

to that complexity, that solid craze.

 

Like an animal carcass on the road at night,

picked at by crows,

 

haunting walkers and drivers. Your face

regularly sliced up by the moving

 

frames of car windows. Your light is drawn,

quartered, your dreams are stolen.

 

You change shape and turn away,

letting night solve all night’s problems alone.

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