"Luna Moth" by Julie Epp
James King | Acceptable Uses of Free Will
Let me tell you: you’re a miracle of atoms
a trillion spinnings, married to coincidence.
To make some sense of this: you could, for example,
get back into writing letters
to someone you saw at the coffee shop
an hour ago, an answer to the missive
that was their steaming cup.
Whether or not you deliver it is up to you,
but if you do, be sure it is delivered
by the diligence of a nut-brown horse
from the last century.
You could finally paint that back room
by dropping a firecracker into a can of Pantone—
the statisticians of the world
are almost positive it’s not impossible
to paint a room that way.
Depending on which universe you’re in,
it’s a crapshoot, a collusion
of gravity and force. In this universe,
a boy builds a bridge out of glue and popsicle sticks
that in another world
would depress his mother’s swollen tongue.
Now it holds up a bowling ball in a sling,
and he takes home first prize.
In this universe, your lover reads a book of poems
in a hospital hallway,
saline tumbling into the crook of her elbow
like children on a waterslide.
When you press the door-close button
in the elevator, it’s a declaration:
you want to be alone.
You never really had much hope,
just a casual interest in a better world,
but that’s enough, isn’t it?
It doesn’t have to be like this.
You can shake the snowglobe,
call your Congressperson,
leave the party early, leave it late,
ghost him, tell him you tried.
Amidst wildfires, hurricanes,
car-crashes and coup-d'etats, it’s enough
to skip work and spend a day
at the world’s green carnival,
guessing the weights of mountains for a quarter.
You could listen to the river
crying into its own banks,
then follow it to the ocean where you confess
that you wish you were a shark.
It is enough, you know,
to allow the spider under your bed to live,
so her grandchildren will remember you
as a kind and giant roommate, and when
the other spiders come to lay their eggs
in your stomach while you sleep, this loyal clan
will fight them off, and so on, until
you move from that house
or die. You could go into the field
of killing loneliness, hatred,
the dark things of the world.
Explode, and then explode.
Wield your wonder like a fucking sword.
a trillion spinnings, married to coincidence.
To make some sense of this: you could, for example,
get back into writing letters
to someone you saw at the coffee shop
an hour ago, an answer to the missive
that was their steaming cup.
Whether or not you deliver it is up to you,
but if you do, be sure it is delivered
by the diligence of a nut-brown horse
from the last century.
You could finally paint that back room
by dropping a firecracker into a can of Pantone—
the statisticians of the world
are almost positive it’s not impossible
to paint a room that way.
Depending on which universe you’re in,
it’s a crapshoot, a collusion
of gravity and force. In this universe,
a boy builds a bridge out of glue and popsicle sticks
that in another world
would depress his mother’s swollen tongue.
Now it holds up a bowling ball in a sling,
and he takes home first prize.
In this universe, your lover reads a book of poems
in a hospital hallway,
saline tumbling into the crook of her elbow
like children on a waterslide.
When you press the door-close button
in the elevator, it’s a declaration:
you want to be alone.
You never really had much hope,
just a casual interest in a better world,
but that’s enough, isn’t it?
It doesn’t have to be like this.
You can shake the snowglobe,
call your Congressperson,
leave the party early, leave it late,
ghost him, tell him you tried.
Amidst wildfires, hurricanes,
car-crashes and coup-d'etats, it’s enough
to skip work and spend a day
at the world’s green carnival,
guessing the weights of mountains for a quarter.
You could listen to the river
crying into its own banks,
then follow it to the ocean where you confess
that you wish you were a shark.
It is enough, you know,
to allow the spider under your bed to live,
so her grandchildren will remember you
as a kind and giant roommate, and when
the other spiders come to lay their eggs
in your stomach while you sleep, this loyal clan
will fight them off, and so on, until
you move from that house
or die. You could go into the field
of killing loneliness, hatred,
the dark things of the world.
Explode, and then explode.
Wield your wonder like a fucking sword.
James King holds an MFA in Poetry from the University of North Carolina Wilmington and serves as Poetry Editor for Bear Review. A two-time Pushcart nominee, his work has appeared in Moon City Review, ONE ART, Passages North, The Shore and others. He lives in New Hampshire, where he is working on his first full-length manuscript.
Julie Epp is a watercolour artist based in Metro Vancouver whose intimate, dreamlike paintings explore hidden emotions and the shifting layers of identity. Through delicate, surreal imagery, she reflects on what is lost, buried, or unspoken within us. Her work invites stillness and self-examination, offering viewers a quiet space to reconnect with their inner world. http://www.julilyart.com/
