On agency and the moon

I would like to be the moon
Not talk to or be lit up by
Or have the moon activate my
Longing or nostalgia or womb

Not to see the moon as her
Or paint a smiley face on it
With my monthly bleeding
Because that is
Where feminine is and isn’t

And I am tired of the rage and the pain and the love.

No.
I would just like to be the moon

A lump of rock, silent
No thoughts
No conflict over agency

A peaceful species

Dead, alive,
Malleable and fixed.

And silent

Or far away enough that no one could tell the difference.

Death and the King

Death sits silently
At the back of the audience

Her eyes focused on the king
She taps, with her toes

Her rages begin to hum.

She breathes – gently
Although she doesn’t need the breath
This has been her project

Personal and pointed
Apart from her soul-collecting work

She feels the heat with her hands
This person at the back

And this person
The person in the corner
And the person outside in tears

Death sighs
Although she doesn’t need the breathe
This is her work
Pointed and personal

Apart from the soul collecting
Death begins – silently, slowly
to dance

And as the crowd cheer the king
The ground begins to shake

Death is calling her rages

They are ancient rages, and new ones
Born and reborn

From this silence
From this burning

The King opens his mouth
Death opens hers

As he begins to speak
She begins to sing


Her rages squirm themselves
Out from under the floor

Their humming holds them together

Death directs her eyes
Towards this corner
Towards those tears

Her rages fly
Scream, burn

The audiences hear nothing

But this corner,
Those tears, are held in flames
by the rages


They hum themselves into the bodies
Death closes her eyes

The King’s days, she knows, are numbered
The rages will warm the corners, the tears, enough to take the king in his sleep
To take the king in his talk

And the rages will return to her

The King’s days are numbered, she knows.
But he is just one king.
That she knows, also.