What is the moon? By Jordan Nishkian

I mouthed out the syllables to the

rhythm of clacking keys

The page loaded—not quick

enough for me to ignore how stupid

the question looked, musing now manifested—

and told me all the world’s answers, “The moon is:

🌘 a natural satellite that orbits planets and astroids

🌗 a celestial body made of regolith and large deposits of basalt

🌖 rainless, snowless, windless, but feels warm when basking in the sun’s glow

🌕 about three days’ travel away (or 240,000 kilometers)

🌔 maybe the product of Earth colliding with a small planet

🌓 the ruling planet of Cancer

🌒 given a halo thanks to thin wisps of cirrus

🌑 able to create rainbows if there is enough light and moisture.”

While the screen glazes my eyes with

answers from the world, I can’t help

but ache for it—no matter how many pages

on this search engine I drill through,

there will never be an answer

from the world herself.

What is the moon to the world?

If I were her, trying to talk to the moon, I (too) would:

🌘 paint the sky to welcome her

🌗 swell the tides to applaud her brilliance

🌖 yearn to the point of quaking

🌕 kick up winds to carry my words

🌔 burn fires to catch the glimmer of her attention

🌓 create mountains, always far out of reach

🌒 dance, spin, unbound by feeling

🌑 try to pull her closer, anxious for dark

Perhaps they have their own way of knowing

Hidden in gatherings of cumulus or

Told in the allegory of stars

The nightjar’s birdsong pulls my

focus to the window, and through

the fog of glass, lilac dust of twilight

What is the moon?