Le voyage dans la lune
The downstairs windows
in our townhouse opened
as awkwardly as the front door
after the last shoulder-in.
Haphazard tracks bent
& bent some more
by screw drivers
& dithyrambs of fingers
doing their work—
sometimes in gloves,
sometimes with galaxies
of fingerprints & nails chewed
down to the soiled hooks
underneath. One time
we found a press-on nail ledged
like a glittering smile
& no screen after the amateur
thief kept it—bronze
medal when she couldn’t
pry the window. & from
underneath the crooked
kitchen opening, where
we sometimes hid
when my mother worked
late & the neighbors
got thick in their loudness—
next to the burned-out
stove & through the spaces
under the curtain’s home-
sewn hems, we could see
our back neighbors’ curtainless
windows, squares
of light so generous we might
have mistaken them
for 3 moons if they were round.
