by Kate Gale
The man drinking whiskey sours tells me about his divorce.
The problem was his wife, apparently. She would not
lie still. Any movement, any distraction caused malfunction.
She knew this. She was warned. Yet she moved arms, ears, toes.
Stay still, he said. His wife underneath.
Said it louder. She froze. The light changed.
Moonlight, shadow. I can’t focus, he said.
She opened her eyes. Can I watch?
Better not, he said. Nothing’s going to happen.
Stay still. She knew he was right by the way
the moon’s craters seized the light and reflected it back
to earth through the window. Unable to create light of their own.
Some receptors create. She was sure of this. She stayed still,
but he was right, nothing happened. What he tells me?
She was warned. He buys me a drink. Hopes my mind will change.
But my mind is with his wife in bed watching the moon’s craters.