Love Letters

Roe Cox | poetry

Plum trees forgetting to line our street, 

remembering this morning was the best

night we will ever have. The moon breathing

on my doorstep; your wobbly knees knocking out 

a crater’s lip, asking it to recite a name no one had ever

spoken. The moon, half-face, all ass, all eyes,

looking for the name inside of a condom

choking on a puddle of cherry-scented nail-polish

& moss drained from our hips, nodding—Yes. 

You: Yes isn’t a name.

& me: And even if it was, it’s one we’ve heard.

before us there is no moon spanked into the sky,

just a blade of gas, a keychain of letters

signed xoxo.

Roe is a writer in Astoria, Queens and likes looking at tiny moths.