3 Poems

by Ryan Clark

I Wish I Spoke Moon

I wish I spoke Moon
so that I could order wine
in Moon
and impress you with my
rolling tongue.

I wish I spoke Moon
so that our conversations
didn't revolve around
mud and metal
the things between our toes.

I wish I spoke Moon
so that your mom would get
off of my back
about not being able
to speak Moon.

I wish I spoke Moon
so that Google would
send me envelopes full of cash
pockets of paper with scratched out names
Molly, Hank, Phil.

I wish I spoke Moon
because when our children
become wolves
I'll know they came
from me.

I wish I spoke Moon
so that I didn't have to speak Moon
but I could
but I would
if you'd just ask me to.

I wish I spoke Moon
and that you spoke Moon
and our lips wore nothing but
silk ties and red gowns
instead of skin.

I wish I spoke Moon
because you
spoke Moon
and that's what I miss the most
about you.

And at times
I wish I spoke anything but Moon
because Moon
out of the roughly 6,500 languages in the world
is not one

and if I spoke Moon
and you didn't
and the world didn't
then the distance between
our open orbits

of language
would remind me that
we only see sides of ourselves
when light
reflects off our faces

and at times
we are blinded
by the sounds of
our own attempts to curse loudly
at the Moon.


Little Red Warships

I haven't yet found the time,
as if a key to that old stubborn door
that just won't open due to rust
and decay,
hinges that have turned green,
wood grey with slick splinters,
steel soured by sleet,
to tell you how much I love you.

Perhaps the clock
will slip behind the three
and allow me to bend
backwards over our
little spot in space
and kiss you with
lips laced with yesterday.

Or maybe the moon
will refuse gravity
and grant us silvery seconds
the sun never told us
ever existed in the first place.

Then again, the wind may
just happen upon rock
not yet licked by the sea
and send us skeletons of
lovely lizards
dressed in flesh
where words were
not yet a thing,
where saying that
I love you
is breaking boundaries
not yet set by the rain of fire,
the great grandfather of chicxulub.

I haven't yet found the time,
in this pocket space of us,
to tell you how much
I love you.

But no matter the speed
at which glass shatters sound
and willows bend their knees
I will find in this pocket of space
This place for you and me
To send warships filled with
chalky red, white, pink and green hearts
In the only direction
You've ever dreamed there would be.


Sweet Mechanics 

I have decided
recently
that it would
be in my
best interest
to become
a chocolate
machine.

That is
a device
that has
no fault
no worry
no lack
of friends
of family
of love
because everything
I make
is covered
coated
lined
tossed
tagged
enveloped
with chocolate.

I wonder
would you
see between
my caramel lips
nougat filling
& taste
who I
was before.

Or should
I just close
my eyes
& plant
my palms
in sugar
& forget
how to breathe. 

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