by Rebecca Martin
I want you to lure me close: tidal,
volcanic. Hold me there, massive
gravity and neighboring moons.
What was it I said? I was born
a woman shaped like a lake
of molten silicate lava and now
I’m a moon without moons?
The whole atmosphere tugging
at the back of my shirt. This satellite never
comes home, and I walk back
moonless from the grocery store.
Hold my gaze like Jupiter. You
in the orbiting pine needles, me
seismic beneath them.
Rebecca Martin (she/they) is the author of High-Tech Invasions of the Flesh (Bottle Cap Press). Her work centers embodied queer femme experience, in conversation with and troubled by the parameters of history, archive, and myth. Their work can also be found in Hayden’s Ferry Review, Defunkt Magazine, Crab Creek Review, Cotton Xenomorph, Peach Mag, Muzzle Magazine, and others, and received an Honorable Mention in the 2022 Gulf Coast Poetry Prize. They are a graduate of Oregon State University’s MFA program, where they were awarded the Graduate Creative Writing Award in Poetry and served as poetry editor for literary magazine 45th Parallel and department steward for their graduate employee union. She currently lives in Pittsburgh.
Emerge Literary Journal 