I love the moon’s craters,
how they appear like bubbles in pancakes
or gaps in an alligator’s smile. The moon
does not know how to love,
but I’m content to blow kisses at its
slowly revolving merry-go-round face.
Moons don’t pulse for love,
but they do tuck snugly into orbit,
sighing pleasantries into our ears,
nuzzling against our bare skin
as we lay in bed awake, hoping
to learn how to spin.
Kelsey May’s poetry has recently appeared in The Maine Review and damselfly press and is forthcoming in Barking Sycamores, and Pine Hills Review. She has also received numerous grants and awards, including a nomination for a 2016 Pushcart Prize. She loves grilled cheese sandwiches and reading novels about Central America.