Angie Estes
| poetry


Tonight the moon is out


on parole—no room, no light


of her own, although in the right mood


she can drag her black dress across


a continent or simply


disappear. Sometimes by the sea


I’ve seen her spend the night


looking at her face in the mirror.


Just try asking her to turn


the other cheek. But me and the moon,


we’re like this: she says you can do


anything that you want to do, but stay off


of my blue suede shoes. On the bonheur


du jour of Marie Antoinette—with its amourettes,


petite sets of drawers above


the writing surface, and its secret


compartment—now in the boudoir


of Béatrice Ephrussi de Rothschild, overlooking


the bay from Cap Ferrat, sits Béatrice’s


telephone. Her number is 166. If I had


ten bags of language, I would travel


to the four months of June and give Béatrice


a call. Astrologers say, “an eclipse may


bring news suddenly, but it takes weeks


to understand its real meaning.”


Just call up the moon, ask


what she’s doing tonight.

Angie Estes’ sixth collection of poems, Parole, is forthcoming in October 2018. Her previous book, Enchantée, won the 2015 Kingsley Tufts Poetry Prize, and Tryst was a finalist for the 2010 Pulitzer Prize.

Watching the Hale-Bopp Comet Over Howard Johnson Motel in Rolla, Missouri