John Biscello

I never learned

the secret delicious recipe

of making a poem

from moon, or the bluest

glacial moon-cheese,

from any of my teachers.

It wasn’t their fault.

They might have regarded

the moon as something alien and distant,

something belonging to astronauts,

astrological envy, and lunatics,

or they might have forgotten

what it feels like to feel the moon

pulsing intimately like a wild epileptic ember

or radiant jumpy spider in their hearts, who knows?

But I sure am glad

that the moon, reigning freely

outside the constraints and jurisdiction

of politics, religion and academia,

directly requests of me, in no uncertain terms—

Make good and inspired use of me, and cook something up,

a verse or two, a haiku, nursery rhyme, whatever,

just burn me into being, and listen closely

to how the stars applaud by winking.

In other words (sometimes the moon rambled on),

everything is an echo of praise and music,

so play me, man, like I’m your homeboy or dancing queen,

play me oh so intimately, without hesitation or reserve,

and our nights together will give your dreams a whole new twist

on living beyond mortal claims

and limits.