by Joe Kapitan

On the dark side of the moon stands this town much like ours, this house like ours, lodged in depression and shadow, but the empty streets are quieter, the thin air colder, and I follow you here when you aren’t looking over your shoulder, when your anger drives you so deep inside yourself yet again that you wind up here, full of thoughts of ending your life, but this cratered town is worse than abandoned, it was never alive, was never meant to be, and therefore devoid of useful ligatures, blades, triggers, poisons, and all things tall to leap from, and even if there were, gravity is a cruel joke; its faint whisper would lay you gently on the gray dust, so you rage until you’re spent, until you fold in on yourself, origami your man-boy frame to fit my arms, and you slow your shudders and I give you your meds and together we search for tiny satellites tracking the black, for hours, until your eyes dull and you ask for a story like you did when you were younger and I remind you of the small blue world you can see from the brighter side, and you say you’re sorry, you wish you could be happy there like normal people, and I say that many of
them aren’t happy there either, son, maybe only the poets are, because poets have the moon, but just the shiny half, just the acceptable half.