by Leslie Harrison
I wanted to ask how do I do this how do I keep doing this
how do I stop I once required the moon no once your voice
moved the moon for hours across the skylight and the stove
burned itself out and the stars followed suit eight hours passed
and the moon passed the glass filled instead with clouded day
with light and distance and both of us so tired my ear days later
still red and tender the hot phone I held going down again into
the cold house the one the baby squirrels came all that winter
into for warmth caught and taken in the box kept for nothing
but that to the barn and set down in the hay and fallen feed
the horses retired to other homes the barn where tack hung
in the shapes of backs necks mouths and brows as though
the horses had not gone but become instead invisible I had
never been happier disliked the intervals of silence and sun
I no longer own a barn a skylight full of the moon a house
that squirrels seek out we both still own the means but what
keeps happening is the moon the day and the moon again
and it wasn’t the horses turning into ghosts it wasn’t
*Photo courtesy John-Morgan.