Did they tell you the story about the man with a vendetta against the moon? He would
stand on front lawns at night, maybe our lawn, buck naked even in the bone cold of
winter, and shake his fist at the man with the hawk’s nose, the miser who had stolen all
his luck and held it hostage in those craggy, toothless pits. Then the police would come,
then a neighbor or maybe a daughter would be called to bring his bottle of round yellow
Tonight’s moon is a greedy moon. A gluttonous moon, full and bloated. It stores our
childhoods. A blue and white china box. A long bank of rocks thrown against water. An
old Victrola, still in working order. Its rosewood chest polished to a high shine, its crank
suspended like a closed hand.
On a lamp-lit street in Pittsburgh, Noah was sent upstairs to say his prayers. Instead, he
wrote a letter in a small notebook by his bed.
Dear man with the crooked nose, are you a prisoner?
I would like to come see you. Please send your name and address.
Kit Frick‘s poems have recently or will soon appear in places like PANK, CutBank, DIAGRAM, Conduit, H_NGM_N,and Jellyfish. Kit is currently Poetry Editor for Salt Hill and is an Associate Editor for Black Lawrence Press, where she edits the small press newsletter Sapling. Kit teaches and writes in central New York.