The Worm Moon

If a unit of virus became the moon

we would keep smoking on midnight

porches and wishing for flannel

sheets. 

The worm moon is a tumeric nipple

pressed against the pane of night.

My wife drives me to the top of 30th street.

Water carries the light, pauses,

and carries it again over Commencement Bay—

if the reflection was unbroken

something might come slouching down

to this gray brine city to be born

and nursed in the milk-fogged hills.

Soil in the valleys thaws and

writhes, pink in the moonglow. 

Tanner Abernathy teaches high school English in a Seattle suburb. He writes image-centric poetry and fiction and enjoys walking and caring for his cat and rabbits. Tanner's favorite writer is Wendell Berry and often discusses Berry with his grandmother. His poetry has appeared in Abyss & Apex, Jeopardy Magazine, and Washington 129+. He was also a winner of the 2018 Sue C. Boynton Poetry Contest.