When I lived on the moon
I mostly sat and watched.
There’s not much else to do up there.
Did you know that the earth has phases
too? Shifting from a shard of blue-green to a full
earth, depending. Once there was an eclipse
and I brought out a folding chair, put
on special glasses. I had planted
a willow and its wavy, delicate branches
split the eclipse shadow like a greenleaf
prism; a hundred hundred little eclipsing
earths dotted the ancient gray dust
beneath my feet. I thought of all
the earths before me and knew
I would need pick one to return
to and leave the rest behind. Shadows
are darker on the moon, they
creep slow and remain. Things
last; footsteps and collisions.
When I got back, you were gone.
And now when the moon is full, I strain
and try to see, to find, all
the tiny shadows of the earths,
those wavering suggestions of possibility,
to which I might have returned.
Evan James Sheldon's work has appeared, or is forthcoming, in Spelk, Roanoke Review, and Poetry Super Highway, among others. He is a junior editor for F(r)iction.