This month, a second Moon Prize, the 81^st, goes to Lindsay Rockwell's pair of poems "Some days."

Some Days

by Lindsay Rockwell


Some days

she loves nothing.
The water pressure too much, or too little
makes her heart feel small.
The church bells heavy her load.
Fire in the stove stares back, hot and mean.
Wet grass sticks to her soles.
Her limp worsens.
Her hip needs mending. The first
shadows of morning prick and prod
so she folds herself into herself
a rumpled woman wanting.
What’s worse, the distant din of children’s 
raucous whoops and hollers careen the breeze
in yellows and reds, crowd her brain
like a faraway train’s wail or a fog horn’s howl.
Her bones buckle beneath the weight.
The bakery’s scents wend their way
inside her tiny heart, small as a bluebird’s
beating as fast. The gallow of her chest
darkens with a heart too small to fill.
Her Ma calls from the wrap round porch
her voice a lilt, a maze of mess, a labyrinth of promises kept 
and promises broken. The darling of her eye, no matter.
Salt that stings her wounds.
Cantaloupes round themselves toward their tapering stem.
So do raspberries, their odd morula selves, stain the earth.


Some days 

she loves it all.
The water pressure’s perfection pummeling
makes her heart feel huge.
The church bells carry her load.
Fire in the stove gazes back.
Wet grass licks her soles.
Her limp lighter today than yesterday.
Her hip needs mending, one day. The first
shadows of morning kind and amber
so she folds herself upon herself
a spectacular woman wanting.
What’s more, the distant din of children’s
raucous whoops and hollers careen the breeze
in yellows and reds, dazzle her brain 
like a faraway train’s hymn or a fog horn’s beckon.
Her bones balance beneath the weight.
The bakery’s scents wend their way
inside her voluminous heart, large as a horse’s
beating true. The temple of her chest
luminous with a heart that fills and fills.
Her Ma calls from the wrap round porch
her voice a lilt, a mess of maze, a labyrinth of promises kept 
and promises broken. The darling of her eye, yes.
Salt that cleans her wounds.
Cantaloupes round themselves toward their tapering stem.
So do raspberries, their odd morula selves, found in a bowl, waiting.


* * * * *

Lindsay Rockwell won first prize in the October Project Poetry Contest in April 2020 and has been published in Iron Horse Literary Review, Perceptions Magazine, The Center for New American’s Poetry Anthology 2020 and The Courtship of Winds. She is currently the poet-in-residence for the Episcopal Church of Connecticut as well as host for their Poetry and Social Justice Dialogue series. As a medical oncologist she has been published in the Journal of Clinical Oncology and coauthored In Defiance of Death: Exposing The Real Costs of End-of-Life Care (Praeger, 2008).