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Moonrise, Aveiro


Math and Music fight for sole custody of the moon

Math tells Music

‘The stars are mine.’

Music considers this and at our silence we say

‘The rocks are mine, the river, the face of god,’

We wait but our ball is rolling

‘Mine are the last two sips in that bottle, mine is the hoolahoop nobody uses anymore.’

Giddily ‘and the conversation on the subway last Sunday at three am with Ferdinand about the scars from slicing open that bagle, hungover, that hot August afternoon so long ago, mine also the silent mention of that Jesus fellow because it’s likely- if you live long enough- you will mention him.

Math continues, ‘But this is not to say that I do not like you and that you are not entitled to anything. You are not like the young wife to my Solomon, or even the Tonto to my Lone Ranger but rather….

The penis to my brain! Indeed!

Not always quite in possesion of your reason but, I suppose, passionate enough.’