ABOUT

CONTENTS

EDITORIAL

ARCHIVE

LAGNIAPPE

MAST

SUBMISSIONS

 
AND THE CITY
SWALLOWED THE MOON
by John Proctor


The city awaits the moon's descent. The thin
crescent lies on its back, suspended over
the cold Manhattan skyline, flirting with the
jagged shadow that reaches out, each tooth
composed of glass and stone and mortal flesh,
and light that flashes, off and on, then off
again as flesh leaves darkness in its wake.
The moon descends.
                                    The rats at Queensboro
Plaza care not for the cheese that hangs above
them as they shuffle from plank to plank. They want
a small morsel, or a wrapper, or cheese, even -
not from the sky, but from the god-like hands
that pitch, drop, throw, or otherwise dispose
of unwanted remains of their small lives. The big
ones press their soft bellies against the hard
steel, still vaguely warm from the last train's passage,
the closest thing to a soft embrace they can
expect in the chill descending night. But listen!
Oh, they listen, as the sound of pipes, perhaps
the slow build of an approaching beast, ready
to grind their bones beneath its twin teeth -
that sound causes most of them to scram,
but the wise ones, the ones who've heard this sound
before, they stick around. They know these pipes
don't rumble, they waft, in measured patterns, not from far
down the tracks, but right above them.
                                                                         It's the sound
of an accordion playing Piazzola's
Loving Tango. Fingers roll and arms squeeze, toes tap
and head bobs, unseeing eyes are squeezed shut
by puffed eyelids, worn down from seeing too much.
His legs, though - they don't go anywhere, at least
not yet. They are the box from which the rest
of him pops out. Without dramatic pause,
the song ends and the swinging and swaying jack
goes limp. Silence. No smile seeps from the man's lips,
but he booms in a deep honey baritone,
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, ANY DONATIONS
ARE GREATLY APPRECIATED." Although he can't
see anyone, he knows they're looking at him,
and he begins walking. He walks from where
he stands to who-knows-where, but he knows where -
nowhere. At least not till the N train arrives.
He'll board it, then he'll really walk. He'll go
from car to car, his feet leading the way,
one song per car, all the way through Midtown,
and Downtown, and into Brooklyn, then down
to Coney Island, where he'll buy a corndog
and some cotton candy if it's not
too late, then walk to the shoreline armed with his squeezebox,
and with the cold wind spraying salt in his face,
he'll see who has the sweetest song. He feels
his fanny pack and wonders if any of
the bills aren't ones.
                                     Sonia recognizes
the melody that drifts away from her.
Yo no amo a nadie," she sighs,
while toeing the hard line of the platform's edge,
her breath a hot wet wisp against the black
night she stands within. She waits, knowing
her train will come, and with it the hard push
and pull of the vessel, wanting her to come inside
but pushing her away while rushing past,
deciding at the last minute to stop
and let her in. But that's where it ends - the moist
warm air will dampen her rosy cheeks and lips,
but she knows the relief will be tempered by the sting
of blood rushing to her skin, boiling under
the thin gauze that barely holds it in.
It's not the getting on for which she waits, though -
it's that moment, the 7 sucking her in,
the wind rippling between them, the buffer;
there's no push-pull, no love, no god, no time -
no concrete measure of formless abstracts - only
the air, condensed, setting her hair adrift,
speeding her heartbeat, as she closes her eyes and waits
for the train to inevitably slow, and let
the buffer disseminate, then breathe a long
inexorable sigh and, with the bored
call of the conductor, let her in. "Amor
no exsiste," she breathes, as silence sifts
through her pleated skirt.
                                            The rats scurry, as the ones
lying on the tracks suddenly spring to life.
They know it's coming, but not from where. But they
don't care from where, or why, only to try
to be as far from the beast's arrival as
possible. All the while, the moon continues
its inevitable descent into
the jaws of the city and the bowels of
the night. But they have time- they all
have time.
                    And so they wait. The rats are gone
and the crowd gathered, as Sonia sees the 7
come rolling around the corner, and she gasps
as her moment comes, the few seconds of the
night she'll be alive. Piazzola
plays from up above, as the city-bound N
has yet to arrive. The steady flow of silent
words has yet to cease, and the silent pool
of wordless pages still holds some transfixed.
And here it comes - the 7 rounds the bend,
when the N parallels its path from the other
side, combining wills, until both roar down
the tracks, brakes hissing, wheels grinding, frozen
wind gushing, until they both slow, and there's no
push-pull, no more silent words, no more
Piazzola, and no more waiting. After
boarding, Sonia glances at the city, and at
the moon. But there is no moon. It's fallen
into the bone machine, the naked city,
and like everyone else, waits to come back
out again.