Friday, June 24, 2011

Emily Idzior - Letter to the Moon

Dear Moon,

I’m sitting in a coffee shop sipping iced pomegranate oolong tea, what are you up to? I see you are starting to rise in the reflection in the window next to me. How are you doing? You seem cold but I know you must have a warm core in there somewhere. No matter what science says.

I’m wondering, I’m wondering if you could tell me why I always say the wrong thing. You hang there listening and never say anything at all. You must have learned something about us after all these years looking. What am I saying, you’re not God. You’re not even a god. You’re the moon. The glorious bright beautiful big round moon. I’m over you. I’m over the moon for the moon.

Dear Moon. I write you letters and you never reply. Why couldn’t there be a real man sitting on your surface reading my words, writing a response? I’d climb a ladder to meet him. To meet you. You’re famous. You’re famous the way no one on Earth could be famous. Famous in a way even the Earth could not be famous.

I want to get drunk and drive to the middle of the desert and hug you. I want to get drunk and slink into an observatory and watch you sleep. Or wake. Watch you change your makeup, change your seasons. The moon is always female so I assume you wear makeup but forgive me if you do not.

What do you look at, perched like a bird, suspended in space? You must see me. Or someone who looks like me. Do I look pathetic, grasping at the air like a lunatic? I’m a lunatic. I’m obsessed with you. Why don’t you see me? I want love like any other human. You must want love. You must want warmth. Some blue. Some white. A little wind, a little water, a little bit of electricity under your surface.

Oh, Moon. I’ve done it again, haven’t I? All talk and no listen. Listen, Moon, whatever you need to say you say it. I’m here waiting. I’m waiting for the phone call. For you to tell me what’s going on in that big satellite above me. To tell me what you see. What you hear. What you wish you could unhear. I’ll say the wrong thing, I promise. I’ll say all the wrong things and you’ll wish you never called me. But that’s okay, just this one time I want to pretend to be good at this.

Listen, darling, I have to go but call me won’t you? Call me some night, tell the wolves to find me. Tell the prairie to call for me. Tell the ocean to call my name. Tell the whales to sing out to me. I’ll be there.

For now, loving you,


Emily Idzior can be found on her tumblr (, twitter (@ylimejane), and, rarely, Blogspot ( She and her husband reside in Michigan with 2 kitties.

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