The Sun, A Surgeon

I went to the clinic
for chronic chattering
inside my head
and do you know what
the surgeons found?

Moths.
Can you believe it?
Moths.
Lunar like the sun remembers
to kiss the moon

on the forehead
before sleep
every night.
And I remember
the sun kissed me too

before caressing
a parhelic circle
across my forehead.
It opened after that.
My head.

Can you believe it?
And I remember
the surprise was so great
the polar vortex
dropped its bottom

all the way
to the jungle.
Snow dusted
every winged
being

until
I heard
their crystal
beats
like chimes.

But only
I heard it.
That’s the problem.
But you’ve got
to believe me.

The moths flew
around the clinic
with the surgeons
chasing
after them.

They forgot
to sew me up
but the sun came back
for another kiss
to suture.

The surgeons
never caught the moths
as they faded to ghosts
like the moon
encased in daylight.

Nicolette Ratz (she/her) is a Wisconsin-based poet currently working at Summit Station, Greenland assisting polar science. Her poetry embraces surrealism and imagination while exploring human connection to land, community, and consciousness.