Moon Landing by Erin Carlyle






When daddy went to the moon,

I sat quietly at home, moonless.


I thought to myself: I’d eat it all,

and the crust of the earth,


if I wanted to. I don’t care about

mapping that cold. I already know


what’s there all gray scale

and massive. My father once


handed me a map. It had a key


made of little raised markings—broken

beer bottles, but no way to land


on the moon. There was just

the impression of that old county


line we’d cross over and a hint

of the old milkweed in the air.



 

Erin Carlyle is a poet whose roots are in the American South. Her work has been featured in literary magazines such as New South, Tupelo Quarterly, and Prairie Schooner. She won the annual Driftwood Press Poetry Manuscript Contest, and her debut full-length book of poetry, Magnolia Canopy Otherworld is out now. Currently she lives in Atlanta, Georgia and is pursuing her PhD in Creative Writing at Georgia State University.





Artwork by Gabriela Knutson


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