Tonya Eberhard

Waiting for the Moon to Sing

If the light of the moon flutters thick ivory lashes,
who opened its rusted-shut eyes?

It is the ivy that snakes its way up the brick wall
like octopus tentacles, spiraling up into the starless sky.

For branches of the heart unfurl to the heart-shaped
moon in anger. Crows vomit blood onto the Holy Host, stained.

Curl the fist to the white-knuckled moon,
white plate, white heartache and stomachache in the mind.

If the moon sings, the wolves will not howl.
If the wolves howl, the moon cannot be heard.

Waiting for the moon to sing is to say
what one could be, but not what one is.

To hear the moon sing is to find the words
'somewhere, here; nowhere, there'
chalked up on a brick wall underneath the coarse ivy.

Closing Hours

Under a pool of light they eat oval moons, empty plates that
chip each tooth with every voracious bite. Night is not promising.
Not in a world that is toothless and starving, buried under snow.
The employees are bereft with their customer service jobs,
showing it with every apathetic broom sweep and hopeless apology
for mistaken orders.

They pay without leaving a tip. Every crumpled and folded dollar
bill must be carefully spent by the two ruthless teenagers. As they
leave, hastily buttoning up coats and adjusting wool hats, the sign on
the door is turned on its belly. Sorry, We’re Closed, it says, in the color
of a depressed cerulean blue. The figures shuffle their way through the
snow, a pair of disappointed hunting dogs that failed to catch the fox bounding
through the frostbitten wood.

TONYA EBERHARD recently graduated from the University of Missouri. She currently lives in Minnesota. Her work has appeared in Fauna Quarterly, The Commonline Journal, The Gambler Mag, Creative Talents Unleashed, Algebra of Owls, Dirty Chai, and many others.

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