Jennifer Willoughby


Then it is January and it's the year
of the horse but I don't love the idea
of an animal standing in for the passage
of time. Animals are magic and time
pops with dumb quotidian stuff: Year
of our first kiss. Year of crumbling ducts.
Year another sequin had to be removed
from the solar system. Notice how I violate
your sense of personal space the second
I open my eyes. If January is two trains
traveling in opposite directions, I am not
on either train. Maybe if I go away, I’ll
embrace what it means to be here. How I
am lonely. How I am surrounded by animals.
How I must lift my eyes to the greenless trees,          
snow-humped gutters and seizing machinery. 
I need an object to light my face like a love
scene. First comes the high-gloss belly
of a jet. Then the moon's beautiful zero.
Here it comes. Here it comes again.








While it may be one of poetry’s biggest clichés, I’m obsessed with the moon. I blame Tom Waits and Carl Sagan. I’m only marginally mystic, but when the moon shows up, I try to point it in a new direction.