Without a Moon, the Moths Would Lose Their Balance

If you could live
allegiant to the moon, ebbing
like the river’s
hungry mouth, would you ask
its name? In my chest
these foaming lungs begin
to sore, split
apart each wave like severed
spines: I try to be
unchanging but I slip
in the sense of a knife
dulled by rain. I can’t be lunar
because lunacy undoes me—
cut me loose and I’ll spit
fire into mud.
I’ve never learned my own
creation myth, never
found an orbit. I turn,
inconstant, as if straining to see
something vague
on the horizon
that I can’t help but want to kill.

About the Author
Zeke Shomler is an MA/MFA candidate at the University of Alaska Fairbanks, where he serves as Managing Editor of Permafrost Literary Magazine. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Folio, AGNI, Bicoastal Review, The Shore, and elsewhere.