by Amy Eisner
and the moon wants us too. It tugs at us, liquid and solid, morning
and night,
its pulse slow as evening, interminable even if you never got as close
as Ronald Evans on the last Apollo, parked in orbit for four hours and
six days—
leaning out to take pictures, keeping the Command Module in command
while others scratched at the surface. After that he pursued a career
in coal. In one of his photos, white marks scatter the midnight
moonground
like dishwater spots on a wineglass, and in the center of one smudge
is the lunar lander, so high in the frame it looks like the head of a man—
and there’s the body, and the arms and legs: a primitive clockwork robot
laid against a tremendous velvet cushion, and if the robot’s head were only
square I’d say, that’s Newt! He is rising from the surface. He’s not leaving
us behind. His hand is for your shoulder. For all that is buried
will come into light. All that’s forgotten, repeal! and we will rise
and live forever, traveling far and enough and away.
Amy Eisner teaches creative writing and literature at the Maryland Institute College of Art in Baltimore. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Fence, The Louisville Review, Madison Review, Poet Lore, Spoon River Poetry Review, Washington Square, and other journals.
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