sunset over water by Inna Mosina
UntitledThe end of the earth is this
big open field where something is shedding light
and the light says “honey,”
the light plays the part of spilled milk
and we, on hands and knees, lap it up.
The light says “gently but hungrily.”
Quietly, our feet to the pool
where the moths go to die.
They were trying to say something
to the water…
“I am yearned for by the moon
but here, with you—”
“Flood me until I burst.”
The end of the earth is this
bed of soft thorns which we spend the entire afterlife
picking from one another’s backs.
It is this crumbling sound somewhere far off,
the smell of glaciers resting their heads on midsummer.
That I have known you since the light became.
We have been here before, with the tree in the center
and the dog running across.
That our chests save cabins inside for this day in every life.
That this jutting lip
of big jellyfish mouth
knows nothing of soil or of splinter—
takes us alive and together,
teaches us how to say “I love you” all electricity and vulnerable stomach.