Pablo Medina: Moon Monkey

The sun is blasting through the window
like a horn of light and it (or he? or she?)
corrects my mood, infects me with hope
(hope mother of love and spring). Snow
has no dominion, having turned to gray
kernels in the corners of the parking lot,
winter’s broken smile curling into nothingness.
A man wearing thick glasses looks up:
Ah, blue. Boo to the sordid, slapping wind.
He must be thinking of love–how the sun
awakes in him a memory, having already
eaten his lunch–and maybe his wife, maybe
his lover. He sees a stranger take off
her coat. She’s a monkey, hair on her chest
and a chummy smile. This happens
often on my block, beautiful women
turn into simians, men become paralyzed
by absolute imperatives. I wanted to say
when this poem began that I love you,
I wanted to undo years of reticence
under the moon when things begin to swarm
and the worms burrow out of the earth
and you’re blinking on and off your desire.

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