pink moon

by Keayva Mitchell

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i don’t want to do this::i don’t want to drive toward the moon/like it’s leading me to any place
with answers/i’m learning::i’m learning that any night/under which my bones fold into
themselves/is the same as any other::if i angle my legs just right::lean my teeth full-face into a
knee::i have never left the window & that is a kind of patience that the moon rewards:: it shivers
into my mouth::a ghostly tortilla::a sad coin/into my mouth/& when i speak it
says::tell::when i crunch it says::now now::who am i to mention suffering/i’m learning:: this
all leads to a room with a view::i opened my mouth & the moon lit my face apart/now/ i don’t
want something to keep me up at night/i want to lean the glass & fall::& fall forever::toward any
place that’ll take me.

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Keayva Mitchell is a Black queer poet living in Long Beach, California. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Black Napkin Press, Fight Evil With Poetry, Wherewithal Lit, and Moon Tide Press, among others. You can find her at home, trying desperately to keep her plants alive.