by Ellora Sutton

laying in a bed of forget-me-nots and wild garlic
all Ophelia       all bone and froth, you know, the way they paint girls
            I saw a dolphin arc over the moon, that great voluptuous croak
                        (I kid you not)
and then I looked around and

                        I was laying on the moon, and it was
an origami of sugar paper, the kind you use in school to make posters
              each molar a factoid about dental hygiene        okay okay
I admit, I had gone a bit owl-and-the-pussycat, all hey-diddle-diddle

the way the moon makes my cells all dust-like the skin of centuries frosting the tomb of Tutankhamun or a pebble scattered in the sand of other used-to-be-pebbles, used-to-be-boulders
            I skimmed the moon like a pebble
the sky’s mackerel scales rippled to flesh, sweltered, weltered, melted away like fat

I think the moon might be a bit drunk, you know, trainwreck sequin, not all there,
     the crests of the waves rush to prop her up, her squad, her handmaids

look at the hell she has put me through, holding the broken glass of world-light up to my throat, threatening as a blank page glowing its lack of words                that antiquated harlot 

            I met the moon in a nightclub bathroom
we swore a blood oath to share our magics    or our lipstick, I forget which
                                                   (or maybe it was both)

how I howled as I watched her get gulped down the drain swallowed up by a puddle and sprayed, scattered, decimated by a sports car                              she left me

alone, in the dark, in the harsh scouring light of day    a pale scar against the vast blue,

            just girl, just moon-bathed and animal
            just Alice, starry for her albino rabbit hole, little bit lost like we are all lost

when we look up at the moon