Duplex for Love on the Moon

              “Beautiful, beautiful, magnificent desolation.”

               —Buzz Aldrin, 1969.

You said the moon was just a round egg

when we were seven, so bitter that home died

when our mothers were seven. Home dried up like this.

One palm and one plum. The skin wasn’t always

beaten like a grandmother’s palm. Often, I’d try

to kiss you. And this is how your lips would float:

straight into meteors, kissing white rock, most of your affection

already given to a goddess we learned about in Earth 101.

The goddess we learned about in Earth 101 was sightless from infancy.

She learned the cartilage of words through a handful of water.

We learned handfuls of water through the cartilage of words.

The idea of long creeks soon came to fascinate you. Mosquitos too. Malaria.

Do you still want mosquitos? Malaria? Something flowing and fluttering and alive.

Are we still half in love? I found something in the moon junkyard today.

I found a loose rocket in the moon junkyard today. Half-scrapped, yes,

but with all the engines still attached. I believe it could take us somewhere beautiful.

I believe the idea of somewhere beautiful scares me. After drifting down to Earth,

what if we find that all the rivers are still absent? I hope

the rivers have returned with their fat, hopeful salmon—and then you

can spear fish atop sun-hot goldbanks, in the way of ancient, masculine man.

And I can raise maize atop sun-hot goldbanks, in the way of ancient, feminine girl.

So teach me how to sail this rocket. I think a living home could be just what we need.

Teach me about gravity and dumb cane and pheasants. I think plums could be just what we need.

I’ll cook all our meals while you laugh at the clouds, which are scudding and trapped by the sky.

I’ll cook all our meals and only let the sky know I feel trapped. For the two of us, I’ll sizzle up

sixteen mosquito eggs. Yours will be scrambled or over-easy. Mine, I’ll make round like the moon.