In Other Words, Take My Hand
Dark matter keeps us slipping the sheets.
The eye is a fused
two-piece we leave somewhere in between
the ranged tides:
let’s be the unimproved,
the smiling tangle flanked by throat and thigh
the wrist and miss and excuse me sir,
the smelltaste of saltsea, the wet fly
at the end of the line, the growling purr.
If the sun were to vanish like a rabbit
swallowed by the stage and the velvet hat,
we’d have eight minutes of lunar strata
to ourselves before all would be what
comes after the binary star:
our minds calaveras de azúcar.
Matthew Woodman teaches composition at California State University, Bakersfield. This poem is taken from a manuscript titled “Moon Songs,” inspired by the moon in all its scientific, literary, and mythological glory. Other poems from this collection have appeared (or are forthcoming) in recent issues of Fourteen Hills, Unsplendid, Agave, 300 Days of Sun, and El Portal.