last day of the verb


let’s go out to the country,
get away from the city lights;

sing the song of the mountains,
walk under the satellites;

feel the moon filling, ever-
molting in our sights;

drink up the fog fugue
like a hungry child might;

and remember how the moon would follow us home,
send us lost-dream signals only we could know.

20140909_223210 (1)


everything’s going to be ok

i’m so confused.

those were dad’s last words
almost five years ago

that i wasn’t there to hear,
that i wasn’t there to answer,

explain, hold. mom was there.
she was always there, hadn’t

left his side in all those years.
and now he was leaving hers,

going on ahead, scoping things
out like he would a store,

restaurant, parking spot.
i was hundreds of miles away

driving through rain, trying
to get there; trying to speed up

time, slow it down, stop it.
we got the call somewhere in

west virginia. we pulled over
into a gas station where i cried

and shook and wiped whatever
was coming out of me into my arm.

yeah, i knew he was sick. yeah, i knew
he was dying. but that doesn’t make it

any easier when it actually happens, ok?
the man who gave me life just died.

he knew i was coming, that i was on
my way. maybe my spirit arrived

ahead of me, scoping things out, like
a store, restaurant, parking spot.

yeah, maybe i had been there after all,
saying it’s ok to be confused; we’re here

echoing back to him what
he had said to me months

earlier, what i had
somehow believed:

everything’s going to be ok.

girl unfurled

the birds are chirping,
chipping away at sleep;

only got a few hours in
before the doublespeak.

forgot to close the windows
and the blinds and the reach,

and this paint-by-number
speakeasy too easy to speak.

i keep hearing
wait and see,

i keep trying to
drink tea,

but i still can’t dance;
you still can’t sing.

can you see this flag i’m waving?
girl unfurled down at your feet?

you lick at my occasion,
at my naked symmetry.

my piano is a garden but
i’m not growing a damn thing.

these words are alive

every thing is light
with dark ness

a liquid gallop,
a brightening of bees,
a lullaby brushing through hair,
a slow-motion shape shifting of bottles in trees.

know your own
loch ness—
its flywheel,
its dread loop;

let it take you down on
your knees into the black-
est blue,
let it turn you,

just for a time,
just for a trip:
to traverse those
shadow field cliffs.

keep feeding it,
that deep flip in the chest,
that steep heart dip between
the legs.

—then— wrest your
self free from
its enchantment, its
encaustic grip.

drop that shit
and run
for the hills,
run for your life.

each new love is

each new
love is
a miniscule dot
in an infinite matrix;

a dot
to connect
to all the other dots,
to all the other loves.

they anchor
me down
and in.

i can’t
quit their
i can’t win.

when i’m inside them
they feel huge, like surround-sound,
like a canyon, like the hand of god.
and i am tiny and grateful.

i forget that
there is
else outside of

that dot.

i knock up against each point
in search of myself, my shifting
shape; like a blues echo they
triangulate, answer back:



i want
to feel your thorns, run
my tongue up, down, over their peak,
let them cut me deep, make me weak,
make me bleed for you, seep into your
hungry mouth; i want to feel you come
apart when you taste me, take me
under, tear me open-asunder with
want and wait and need. i want
you greedy for only me, for my
teeth against your throat, my
adorned desire on its knees.

every one is listening


wrap your self in

your own narrative,

in your own sweet & terrible

story that only you can

weave. others will try

to tell it for you:

you must shut them

up with your own

glory. do not be afraid

of the way you shimmer

& shine when you climb

to the top of that finite hill.

you worked so hard to

get up & out of the valley.

you were the only one there

to see the true darkness;

the hurt;

the despair.

others tried to care

but could not enter.

when you came out

you were a new being,



at times you still feel like a fraud,

like an imposter in this world,

like you are trying to win a

race you have already won.

the real frauds are the ones

trying to take your voice.

stand tall on the sun-soaked

cliff and tell your story—all

of it—even if no one is



every one is listening.

Art by Olivia Santiago

First line and some concepts shared by Barbara McNamee Moody