Caning The Ballet Dancers

A SPEECH ABOUT THE MOON
Chelsey Minnis

I think, “The moon is mine and all the craters are mine.”

Then I begin to think, “I am covered with drizzling grief.”, “I have all the ice blue sinning birds.”, “I control the sea.”, and “Everything sticks out of the sea.”

Then I plunge my hand into the air and say, “I want to eat the fighting swordfish in the sea who stick their swords into boats!” And, “I want to eat their swords.”

Plus, “I like the sultry avenging birds.”, “Terrible birds with moisturized wings over the sea.” and “I want to fight.”

Then I think about the hazel waves of the ocean and the hot creamy lemon grasses of the moon.

I think, “I am going to sleep.” and “I am dreaming about grey hair.” and I live very still for awhile. I think, “I can strew daisies in grey hair...”

Then I start to cry and the tears flow down to my teeth. I think, “Everyone has to bite silver mesh.”

I constantly try to think, “Fish are resting in the sea.” or “Some fish are just hanging in the sea.”

And I lie very still and tell myself, “...In the middle of the night...it is totally quiet...mo crabs are coming towards you...”

Then I sit up and cup my hands over my nose and shake my head slowly back and forth.

The world rises up on both sides of me. I think, “I have to die.”

Then I lie in a position for awhile.

The moon is flapping and curling around me.

I think clearly, “I have to lie facedown.” or else “The moonlight is smoothed on my back like the map of someone who is trying to leave.”

Then I reluctantly think, “Dominating bluebirds.”, “...that fly...”, “around” and “...melon raptors...” and “Tricolor murder hawks.”, “...with their songs.”

I lie on my side so that the tears from one eye slide into the other eye.

I say “I have to invent warmy tawny roses that have never been seen before...”

Then I fix the sheets which are twisted around my ankles and think, “I have to be tormented.”

Then I continue to think things about the moon, like, “The moon is a silver hitching ball...shorn...off the trucks of the world...”

I tell myself, “...late at night...a placid sea monster...is rising out of the sea...with kelp on its head...to look at me...”

I think about the moon again, “The moon is a silver leg-iron.”, “My entrails are the color of moonlight.”

Then I think about the circulating birds.

I rub my hands on my stomach and think “oh no” and start to cry.

I pull the long tears out of my eyes and look away.

Slow blinks crash down.

Then I hold my wrist very tightly and watch the veins rise up so I become vascular in the moonlight.

I think, “Birds are automatically beautiful.” and twist around.

I am dragging the satin around in my mind and thinking of my displeasure. I roll over.

I cry more tears that spread across my face and think “No, no, no”, “Fish are biting the ocean.”

I think, “The thoughts are like terrible ballet teachers with canes.”

from Chelsey Minnis's Zirconia
recommended by a staff member at the Fence Books table, AWP 2012

THOUGHTS NEAT, NO CHASER
​Adam Stone

I keep tearing my fitted sheets from the 
corners of my bed as if they weren’t carefully designed to 
cling to the edges of the very low
hanging cliff of my mattress

I tell the pillow “I am not a kettle
left on a stove that 
surges on and off as though electricity was off its meds.”

The pillow becomes tree bark with 
patches of moss.

I ask the blankets “Why do I only notice my legs when they are out of tune with my
breathing? When they forgot to clock in to the rest of my body?”

The floor thinks I’ve been
avoiding it because of something it said
several boyfriends ago.

“I should have realized my status as a
detour sign months ago.” I tell the pants
flung in the general direction of the laundry bag.

“Remember that thing I said several 
boyfriend ago?” asks The Floor.

“Shut up.” I tell the fitted sheet. “You are not a
metaphor for my arms.”

My phone is silent but not in a judgey way.

The paparazzi of my laptop wants me to check in on my friends’ 
social media presence. 

“My heart is not late
filing its tax returns this year. It did not
invent some new formula of numbers.” I tell the
window which isn’t even
bothering me with street lamps or
passing cars. “It’s too late for 
civility.” I growl. “It’s too early for
logic.” it yawns back.