the sound the world makes when a moment dies

he said: you talk a wide variety of nowhere.
locate yourself on your neuron map and maybe
i will understand. i said: i could no sooner find
the moon in its reflection. maybe they will read
my impreciseness and see the reality, and drink it
with sugar and cream. he said: i like my truth black.

i wrote him fever-dream-perfect letters about his
faults. when i was drunk i would forget everything
but love.

i am: woman, barefoot, eyes lowered.
in my breast is a jar of fireflies.

every time i reach for the moon, it ripples.

-erin mcnellis