By: Aida Bode
You have forgotten the moon,
she's but a rusty penny
lost in this oxidized corner of space
her luck despised
thrown by the claws of a crow
that's looking for corn.
all I have is this moon
and yet, shameless enough
to stare at me
I know what she sees
the Saint, whose halo I carry on my head.
Aida Bode is a poet and writer from former communist Albania, whose works have been published in a variety of online and print magazines including, Dime Show Review, Prelude, 34th Parallel, Transcendent Zero Press, West Texas Literary Review, Three Line Poetry, The Raven's Perch, Vayavya, as well as Albanian presses.In addition to Albanian publications, she’s also authored/translated the well-received novel David and Bathsheba, two poetry volumes, Rated and True Cheese, and a quotes collection, A Commuter’s Eye View. Aida holds a MA in English and Creative Writing from Southern New Hampshire University.In 2017 Aida was selected as a Pushcart Nominee by West Texas Literary Review.For more about Aida visit www.aidabode.com.
"This poem has taken a few years to come together. The first verses came about five or six years ago, and then a bit later, another portion, and later on more verses. Everything was scattered in emails that I had sent to
myself, as I often write and know that there's some thought, but I'm not sure myself what that thought really is. When I was collecting these emails, I felt that these scattered verses were part of a big puzzle, and only now I could see its imagery and meaning. One day, I found the last verse in another email and went back to the collection of the verses I had put together and I saw what had haunted me during this time. So, while
there are poems that are written in a breath, this one was written with gasps."