Plum trees forgetting to line our street,
remembering this morning was the best
night we will ever have. The moon breathing
on my doorstep; your wobbly knees knocking out
a crater’s lip, asking it to recite a name no one had ever
spoken. The moon, half-face, all ass, all eyes,
looking for the name inside of a condom
choking on a puddle of cherry-scented nail-polish
& moss drained from our hips, nodding—Yes.
You: Yes isn’t a name.
& me: And even if it was, it’s one we’ve heard.
before us there is no moon spanked into the sky,
just a blade of gas, a keychain of letters
signed xoxo.