any other steeple

all my dreams and disappointments
come back to me in the moon’s face;
moon man, who wishes sweetness onto the cradles
of the infidels, with their incessant crying
and sings them to sleep with his waxy patience.
only he can hold them, and he will keep them
like no other god could, and he will love them like any other steeple

the moon wishes to be an astronaut when she grows up,
she tells her mother who sighs and says maybe one day
which means never and the moon can tell this
lie from the other truths because she rotates everyday
through the windows of her mother’s home, past the dresser
filled with dust and the smoldering cigarettes on the
living room side table, gathering sound and motion
while the garden outside grows ever and only upwards

suddenly, haplessly, the moon went out for groceries in her
silk sundress and white-rimmed glasses,
bought milk and sugar, flour, butter

she knows what she wants, of course, and falls asleep easily

oh, what it would mean to have someone rock me
like the moon rocks her memories, rocks her mountains,
rivers never dried

she walks, quiet, through greenhouses,
dripping condensation, dripping like peaches, like apricot,
stone stuck fast in her mouth like an egg: she is not barren, see!

we drive out late and she is watching from her street corner
plastic bags glowing from her hands, rippling like the surface of a lake

she watches us without malice, and you hold up a hand in greeting
as the light turns green, like the night watch passing each other in the dark

Norah Brady is an 18-year-old moon enthusiast writing about conspiracy, climate change anxiety, and mountains. She was a runner-up for Youth Poet Laureate of Boston and has received two Gold Keys and a Silver Key from the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards. Her poetry and short fiction works can be found in Rookie, The Ekphrastic Review, Blue Marble Review and the collection Writers on Earth: New Visions for Our Planet.

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