We were told the moon was the Earth’s only satellite.
We were told it was cratered, pocked and pitted from the impact
of asteroids and comets.
We were told it was luminous against the dark.
We were sometimes told it was made of chalk and sometimes told
it was made of cheese.
We were told the moon was a folded note trying to send itself to the sun.
We were told that if we read the note it would say I’m cold. It’s lonely up here.
We were told not to mind this kind of talk, that the moon was lying, it had no feelings. In this way, they said, it was akin to insects and fish.
We were told that fish kiss the water as they move through the waves.
We were told they are always drowning and they enjoy this act. But how can they enjoy drowning? we asked, and the answer was always the same: Each enjoys whatever life offers.
We began to ask each other, Are you a moon or a fish? Meaning, Are you drowning or are you lonely? I chose moon because I was orbiting the school in progressively wider arcs.
How far will I go? I wondered. My classmates reached for me; I tried to catch their fingers but they could not hold me; I was floating away.
Years later, I would recall their eyes gazing at me, how they looked, not like children’s eyes, but like moons drifting into darkness, drifting into space, trying to relate a message to the sun that, we all discovered, we would never be able to deliver.
Dara Yen Elerath’s debut collection, Dark Braid (2020, BkMk Press), won the John Ciardi Prize for Poetry. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from IAIA and lives in Albuquerque.
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This article appeared in the print edition of the magazine with the headline Things We Were Told About the Moon in School.