2 poems

by Emily Moon

always raining

It's raining 

in my left ventricle.

A flood flows 

through my aorta,

rushes to my brain,

drips out my eyes.

I want a hurricane 

to rip through my consciousness,

churn the seas of memory,

wring showers from my dark amygdala,

make a nest of driftwood 

for my inner demon to rest upon.

I want fat drops the color

of black plums to purple me clean,

refresh my brain,

make me want to 

lean into love again.

I want to be the rain 

falling like love,

falling like the ghost of love,

falling like the love that might have been

had we been 

the people we thought we were.

immortality

Our atoms 

are likely the only bits 

of us that will come close 

to immortality.

We carry the minute imprint 

of everything each of them

ever touched. 

Tinges of us

carried on our former atoms 

will join collections of molecules 

ad infinitum 

until they shred

into quarks and leptons

dissolving 

into the event horizon 

of a black hole 

at the heart

of a new galaxy.

In this way,

we shall live

forever.

Emily Moon (she/her) is a queer transgender poet from Portland, Ore. She is author of "It’s Just You & Me, Miss Moon" and Editor at First Matter Press. Her work includes appearances in or forthcoming from Pile Press, Boats Against the Current, Banyan Review, Culinary Origami, Roi Fainéant Literary Press, [in her space] Journal, and elsewhere. You can find her on Instagram @emilymoonpoet and Facebook at Emily.Moon.57/. Her link tree can be found at https://linktr.ee/EmilyMoonPoet.