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The Kinloch Rivers Memorial Prize

Terri McCord

 

Origins

What has the moon not
been? A flashlight, bowl, face,
prompt for werewolves, mirror,
puller of tides, a pupil,
yarned God’s Eye, even Armstrong’s leap
for mankind”
these are all familiar. Defined by shape
or glow or myth, how is it
ever new

as metaphor until
each month, it is new and literal
then back again, the sky
the inside of a magician’s sleeve,
the moon a magic coin
reappearing from behind
the ear. See the smile. See the hammock.
Maybe it has not been
a dollop of whipped cream, a contact lens,
doorknob to the future, the crosshair,
loss of pigment spot in the skin,
a mere piece of clay cratered
with fingerprints, and that smear
which contains
one cell on the glass slide.