by Jack H. Marr
Once I was branded with the swelling moon.
It sank within me and gestated there,
obscene and useless, its twin satellites
pushing out their pearl-white parasite eggs
in mute optimism.
(In the sky the true moon, curved as horns,
looked down at me; he winked.
My parasite moon began a steady leak like grief:
thick tears. Every lunation
a bloody hell.)
At last they pulled it from within me
the slick red threads and pinkish swell of it
as ominous (as innocent) as a tumour.
An impossible birth through
cross-shaped gills black with
through the stretched-out ache.
The true moon settled there, where it had been:
An upturned crescent fierce and white
and blazed its bull-head light.
Jack H. Marr is a British writer, craftsman and recovering lawyer living in Montreal, where he hopes to one day learn to understand Canadians. As an emigrant, a witch and a bi trans man, he knows a bit about the Queer skill of moving between worlds.
Read Jack's discussion of this poem over at the Roundtable!
Photography: Crescent Moon, by Luis Argerich.