portion of the artwork for Roy White's poem

Roy White

The moon is falling like a failed lemon
not even a beagle can smell.
The moon is falling in a failed
parabola bent with desire.

Wolf moon, crow moon, it kisses
the snow in a cloud of ozone
then burns below the earth.

              With a girl’s hands you hang
              up light in the paper garlands,
              for me a crown of flowers:
              tufted crow-toe and pale jessamine.

              I am last month’s newspaper,
              I am peacock embroidery
              on a pink hand-wind:
              so much cold, mute display.

              Horseradish and gasoline
              hang in the air, in your mouth
              the taste of chewed eraser.

              You whisper to the navel of darkness,
              you brush the nipple
              of darkness with the base
              of your fingers. You dig

and dig, raising up
a ball of black glass warm
and snug in your palms.

Press it to your heart,
feel it thrum low
as a cello: it’s like
predicting an eclipse.

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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 49 | Spring/Summer 2017