by Emilie Plunkett

I can see the moon
again, they finally burned down the mountain
I don’t know why it’s comforting me, muddy
fingernails and unkempt gardens makes me rabid
and there’s little connecting me to the ditch
except that we both sweat blood

I’ve got to spit the blood
back in, rather than give it to some moon
god, tulip god, god who lives under a ditch
it’s almost earth day and we are without mountain
s, tenderised, lonely and rabid
I guess we’ll make do with muddy

farmlands and muddy
as far as the eye can see our children are rabid
and distrust the moon
I guess solitude can be found in the mountain
but I much prefer the ditch

it smells like unwashed sheets in the ditch
like rotting teeth and heartache covered in muddy
disapproval, I wondering if climbing a mountain
would help or if all it gives is blood
y noses, I use to get nose bleeds staring at the moon
like some fruit turned rabid,

turned sour, it seems uneasy being rabid
but I’d prefer that to Ophelia re-enactments in the ditch
spotlighted by the moon
in a dried up lake with no memory of muddi
ness, it’s not prophetic when there’s blood
in the mountain

stream, instead it tells us the cursed mountain
is taking form and rabid
community will not cleanse our blood
but instead leave our love in ditch
es and muddy
circus tents, looking for something new on the moon.

there’s not much left inside the ditch except blood covered underwear and
moldy dishes, in 2000 BC we first met rabid animals and left them in muddy
homes, with their view of the moon blocked by a mountain.

Emilie Plunkett (they/them) is a poet and photographer based in Chicago, their practice focuses on intimacy and messiness. They enjoy long walks by the lake, Alice Austen’s photographs and plums.