The moon was a full moon: heavenly flex.

Full of itself and the light of the sun,


The marble remains of a magnificent nude,

A bare breast in the night sky.


It is true that the moon was invisible on

Its own, that its beauty and majesty were


Borrowed things, nothing like a divine right.

A beauty democratic.


All the same, there was plenty of evil to go

Around. A little girl was locked in a basement


And there it was seasonless and dayless and

In every way primordial,


Except that she existed, and God was

Not there to precede things.


All the same, there was plenty of goodness to go

Around. A young couple was pledging allegiance,


And they went home and made the best love that

Anyone had ever made because it was their own


And it was an entirely original love

Because they had never existed before to make it.


And the moon slipped through the shades into

The bedroom and slipped back out and fled,

Ashamed, and turned the face of the moon blood red.


Originally published in:


By Conlan Salgado

Conlan Salgado is studying philosophy at Roosevelt University in Chicago. His poetry is online at