Moon River

Nights like this,
you almost get used to the hum and the sigh
of the mod­ern world’s lan­guage:
cough­ing up exhaust,
elec­tric­ity crackling.

It is not not like Frank Sina­tra,
but low like Frank Sina­tra,
notes stretch­ing like Frank Sina­tra,
mourn­ful jubi­la­tion like Frank Sinatra.

I make sure to steal glances at the stars –
I don’t want to know if a star is really a star
or really an air­plane.
I never look long enough to watch the star move,
and in this way,
I cheat the mod­ern lan­guage
by pre­tend­ing it is music.

Tonight stretches wider than a mile.
Audrey Hep­burn has hips like a god­dess.
not like aphrodite, who has hips like Mar­i­lyn,
but like Artemis, who is ephemeral,
who doesn’t take shit from any­body,
who smiles and walks away from fights,
who spears the moon with her arch laugh.

I am small,
and may have had hips like Audrey Hep­burn were I few inches taller. I get phan­tom grow­ing pains in my shins,
never mov­ing an inch,
but the ache for hips like Audrey Hepburn’s
tugs at my insides
rat­tling the marrow.

Spine curves back,
straight­ens out,
mil­i­tary rigid­ity.
imag­ine a string con­nect­ing the tip of your scalp to the heels of artemis,
and if your skin rips as the world turns,
do not show it.
mouth soft, back hard.
they said to me, “keep your chin up, sun­shine“
and I listened.

There were morn­ing glo­ries in la Provence
the size of plums –
and the sun bent to creep low from behind the trees,
seek­ing the blue
not in the sky, but in the petals.
turn away from from the sky,
and look upon earth.
look only upon earth.
it is impos­si­ble to be lonely in a place so messy, so full of blue.

Look at the stars too long and the ground at your feet is infi­nitely fur­ther away.
you sit, try to reclaim your roots,
try to stay put.
Your hips sink to the ground, sur­ren­der­ing to grav­ity,
but when you rise, it is effort­less. no mag­nets.
you miss the tug.

You watch the satel­lites pass and won­der if it had to be this way.

Speak­ing in tongues that have wrecked the silence for­ever,
the purr of cars on the free­way
reminds you to breathe.

• Photo by Hanna Smith / Used with Per­mis­sion

1. 

   Alex Rogala says:

   May 27, 2009 at 4:48 PM

   I like this.

   And thank you for mail­ing me that let­ter a while back. I joined CIA and now I’m JSA chap­ter pres­i­dent for next year thanks

   reply
2. 

   Meghan Vercammen says:

   May 27, 2009 at 9:35 PM

   Beau­ti­ful! I enjoyed read­ing this so much. It felt like I was liv­ing inside this poem. Bravo!

   reply
3. 

   Roanne Quiozon says:

   May 28, 2009 at 4:43 PM

   absolutely spell­bind­ing well done!

   reply
4. 

   Lauren Holian says:

   September 23, 2009 at 11:08 PM

   i got lost as soon as i hit

   It is not not like Frank Sina­tra,
   but low like Frank Sinatra,

   And men­tion of Audrey blew me away, I could relate to the aching for what she was. Fab­u­lous Job. It’s beautiful

   reply