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About this poet

Kamilah Aisha Moon received a BA from Paine College and an MFA from Sarah Lawrence College. She is the author of Starshine & Clay (Four Way Books, 2017) and She Has a Name (Four Way Books, 2013). Her honors include a Pushcart Prize and fellowships from Cave Canem, the Fine Arts Work Center, the Prague Summer Writing Institute, and the Vermont Studio Center. She teaches at Agnes Scott College in Atlanta, Georgia.

Exploded Stars

	haunted by
wholeness—
	bright debris sibilant
beneath skin tug-of-warring
	with gravity, we
harvest shine
	from the caves of
mouths & crevices
	of eyes incandescent
as we remember
	the most massive
flares among us,
	detonate inside
each other to hold
	tiny supernovae
in our arms. Crushed
	bodies craving fusion
keep us brimming
	with enough energy
to pass on,
	keep us lit & lying
to ourselves about
	the eventual & sudden
ways we black hole—
	it already happened, it’s happening
anyway, to happen soon,
           scattering all that we think
matters so much now
	for another radiant giant to gather
then fling across galaxies
	again—reconstituted
& scorched clean,
           new turmoil begging
from the inside out
           to burn.

From Starshine & Clay (Four Way Books, 2017). Copyright © 2017 by Kamilah Aisha Moon. Used with the permission of Four Way Books.

From Starshine & Clay (Four Way Books, 2017). Copyright © 2017 by Kamilah Aisha Moon. Used with the permission of Four Way Books.

Kamilah Aisha Moon

Kamilah Aisha Moon

Kamilah Aisha Moon is the author of Starshine & Clay (Four Way Books, 2017). She lives in Atlanta, Georgia.

by this poet

poem

   —to Shirley Q. Liquor, Drag Queen in Blackface


When you're gay in Dixie,

you're a clown of a desperate circus.


Sometimes the only way to be like daddy

is to hate like him—

hope your brothers laugh

instead of shoot,

wrap a

poem
Someone else used to do this before.
Someone responsible,
someone who loved me enough
to protect me from my own filth
piling up.
 
But I’m over 40 now & live alone,
& if I don’t remember it's Thursday
& rise with the cardinals & bluejays
calling up the sun, I’m stuck
with what’s left rotting
for
2
poem
            after the news of the dead 
            whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you 
			—W. S. Merwin


A blanket of fresh snow
makes any neighborhood idyllic.
Dearborn Heights indistinguishable from Baldwin Hills,
South Central even—
until a thawing happens and residents emerge
into