mercy moon 

by Conner Beeman

as a child, my grandfather 

taught me to trace 

the path of the stars. 

his old hand, skyward, 

pointing to Mercury, Venus, Jupiter. 

and even now, on the far 

edge of a sunset, I see the planets, 

(or at least, what I hope are the 

planets) 

and I recite, “Mercury, Venus, Jupiter.” 

forgive me for my uncertainty, 

for the time, 

for the distance. 

I am a bitter-cored moon, 

meteor showering my disdain. 

my mother, a Libra, does not forgive, 

and taught me the same. 

I do not know if I want to, 

only that I wish I knew how. 

last month, they crashed 

a satellite into an asteroid 

in search of knowledge. 

and when I saw the images of that far-off destruction, 

that small plume of gray dust and shattered parts 

millions of miles away, 

I thought of him. 

I thought of him, 

and still did not call. 

Connor Beeman is a queer writer and the winner of the 2021 Ritzenhein Emerging Poet Award. Their first chapbook, “concrete, rust, marrow,” is out next spring from Finishing Line Press.

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