at twilight, parked highway-side
under what’s left of the old bridge,
tires & worn boots bury
in weed and gravel.
being here reminds me of what they say
the world will resemble when we leave it,
clouds of cattail in cold light,
a brook-bent reminder
of overgrowth & negligence.
overhead, the moon
is always showing the same face,
a vacant evening curse—
we pinch it thin between fingers & wish
it would turn like a coin.
you say there’s a crater on the other side,
that’s where i’d carve our names
if i had you—
the word if barreling through mist,
a dark freeway of possession.
after awhile, you ask why don’t you look at me
while you talk?
in a voice anxious to unlearn
there is always some moon
you will never be able to see.
GRACE GILBERT is currently studying creative writing at SUNY Geneseo in Western New York. Her passions include reviewing books of contemporary poetry, eating manchego cheese on the floor of her apartment, daydreaming about Sir Elton John, and whispering the word ‘gazebo’ to herself until she dissociates from the English language. Grace’s poetry has most recently been featured in Anomaly Lit, Maudlin House, Gandy Dancer, Glass Mountain Magazine, and the Metonym Journal. She hopes to pursue an MFA in Poetry after undergrad.