I watch for a house in a moon crater.

Smoke nudges the rim. A light hangs

across three chimneys, and an astronaut

sits down on the roof, and she waves.

 

It might be the ghost of one of my aunts.

She might be looking for a hinge that bounced

from a rocket. She might be stretching a flag

across the roof, and she’s trying to pray for oxygen.

 

Anyway, she is resting on the roof of a house

in this crater. Starlight peels moon dust. Maybe

I can wave beside a water cooler, and my aunt

will see how the earth is water, and I am lightning.Clyde Kessler lives in Radford, Virginia with his wife Kendall and their son Alan. Kendall and Clyde have an art studio called Towhee Hill in their home. Clyde is a regional editor for Virginia Birds, a publication of the Virginia Society of Ornithology. He has poems published in many magazines such as Silver Blade, Still the Journal, Decades Review, San Pedro River Review, and Cortland Review.