The moon, in the middle of September’s
drive-by, rises large and orange
and gibbous, a word meaning
humpbacked, as in bactrian moon,
buffalo moon. Say it with
a hard crust and soft center
like a fresh loaf. Say it
with marmalade. Your gibbous head,
my beating heart. My heart
cries for you, my brother sang
after bullying me. Cynicism
was born under a cold moon,
like insurrectionists pleading they
were good people swept along
with the crowd spirit, never bothering
to check in with their conscience.
Gibbous, suggesting askew. Walls
and doorways out of plumb,
cabinets of Dr. Caligari.
We all get Prufrocked at one time
or another, chins shiny
with peach juice, sitting like Hamlet
at the end of an oblong room,
wondering whether to stand or just
tip the fuck over backwards as if
the void is waiting there to swallow.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 25, Issue 3.
John Minczeski is the author of five collections and several chapbooks. He has edited several anthologies, including a recent collection of Polish-American authors (with John Guzlowski), recently published in Poland. His publications include Atticus Review, Chattahoochie, Tampa Review, Harvard Review, The New Yorker, St. Paul Almanac, and others. He lives in the Twin Cities.
See all items about John Minczeski
