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        [Emily Moon]


When the sky

became a mirror,
warm, fuzzy feelings
filled my chest.

You unbuttoned your shirt,
revealed all your teeth,
every glance
a measure of eloquence.

With each breath,
you quelled silence
into a roar.

Light in your eyes
made the floor float.

My heart
was a 3-year-old child,
sticky hand in the hand
that kept it from straying
too close to the edge

we are over the edge.

In free fall,
we are a murmuration,
a susurration,
a constellation of bats
speaking words
no one else can hear.

After the Spill


my identity

is a many branched freight yard
stitched together
by donkey engines

An echo of me leans out the window like a dog, tongue lolling, nosing for scents at 186,000 miles
per second. Space smears. The fabric of time tears. A dip in the Sea of Tranquility washes away my

sorrow, leaves me with a fresh face to face the next batch of trouble.

I don't know
how to be anything

than what I am

When I google myself, I find 1,142 people who have the same name as me. And I thought I was so
unique! 33 1 / 3 per cent have their birthday on June 21st. They could fill a dancehall. If someone called out, "Emily!" they'd all turn their heads as if they were in the departure lobby of Union Station.

my waxing crescent glows
orange against a purple sky
the train arrives

it's time to go

On 23rd Avenue in the City of Roses



A leafy day.

Clouds stretch hands
across the sky.

Cars glimmer in their rain
slicked reflections.

Trees extend their arms,
shake hands with the sky.

A dog walks a human
who tugs at the leash
to stop and sniff the roses.

Posh tourists pause
to gaze in shop windows,
stop for a pot of tea
at tables that sprout
in front of cafes.

Wind dances with leaves,
teases humming cars
who carry their spring
fuddled drivers
without complaint.

Thoughts move to love
and what is true about it.

Sleek and Queer as Fuck



We follow
a chatoyant star
through scintillant night

en route to Andromeda.

We cruise trans
Neptunian space
through the avalanche
of the Kuiper Belt
and the expansive
Oort Cloud.

Our ship is sleek
and queer as fuck.
To be trans
is to be galactic.
One sky
is not enough to hold us.

At the liminal zone
of possibility,
we'll be
what we always have been
as fabulous
as we want.

Head Full of Bees *TW: sexual assault


Behind the machine shop,
summer of my eighth year,
derelict car parked

under a scrawny tree.
Road dust, flat tires, red
vinyl seats. Spikey weeds

reached from under
the door. Bees hummed
among prickly flowers.

You said be careful
or you might get stung,
pushed me into the car.

I felt your weight on me.
My face on the seat,
sun beams slanted

through the dirty windshield,
dust motes drifted lazily.
My head buzzed.

The interior was full of light
and stale cigarette stink.
You spoke with your body.

I couldn’t speak.
I had no words, no one
to say them to. I thought

whatever it was
that just happened,
it was probably my fault.

Emily Moon (she/her) is a queer transgender poet from Portland, Ore. She is Editor at First Matter Press. She is author of "It’s Just You & Me, Miss Moon." Her work includes appearances in or forthcoming from Pile Press, Boats Against the Current, The Viridian Door, Banyan Review, The Dawn Review, Culinary Origami, and elsewhere. You can find her on Instagram @emilymoonpoet and Facebook at

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