But The Moon Must Be Found
She kept an eye out for it as she vacuumed the beds and the curtains and the corners where the old spider’s web hung on. For fun she practised saying ‘I do.’ She saw gossip in the puckered mouth of a fish on the chopping board. She turned a ring on her finger and saw the sky fresh as beaten rug, and felt the way a blue garter might at the top of her thigh. She wanted to offer the moon with both hands.
Simon McCormack lives in Bournemouth. His poems have appeared in numerous magazines including Poetry Review, Interpreter’s House and The Rialto. His first pamphlet A History of Scraps can be purchased here http://erbacce-press.webeden.co.uk/#/simon-mccormack/4589821451