The Moan Wilds

THE MOAN WILDS is a long poem. Lighting fireworks in the yard during a party, then escaping into the house to cut your hair in the bathtub, or down the road to where everyone promised you could perfectly see the moon. Sharing a bottle of wine while riding through the Blue Ridge Mountains in the back of a station wagon with no air conditioning and nothing but weather and sports on the radio. It's writing each other's names on the windows with melting lipstick. Putting glitter on your eyes. Crossing your legs over her legs to make a move on a giant rock in the river. Getting blood on your dress. Sweating in pink sheets until noon with someone you got to sing "Someday I Will Treat You Good" then "Trains Across the Sea" then "Farewell Transmission" with at karaoke. Yelling on the phone from the porch about a psychedelic kind of light coming in like water but also like velvet through the magnolia that everyone needs to see to believe and we can make a whole goddamn night out of it if someone goes to get more wine.