I followed all the expert advice: at the moon’s perigee
I rowed myself deep into the night and anchored even
deeper in the Pacific’s heart. Beneath the earth’s umbra,
I stopped believing in blood as a season of the moon,
trained the iphone lens on the western blue and waited
for moonset. I woke all but covered in worry and sea foam.
Small black and white birds called out a nonsense verse
in an island dialect. My boat listed, half-full of blooded water.
I had been lulled into dreams of Illinois autumn where hunters
and harvesters take the moon seriously as a version of gospel,
where we stalk dinner through dark orange fields of corn wide
as seascapes. I flailed for my phone, for oars and, finding nothing
in my hands, filled them with red ocean and swam into the sky.
Published last year as part of an interview with antler.