blue moon factory

i was born across the street
from the blue moon factory.
it was open all night & i remember
the workers coming & going.
chemicals from the factory 
made the carrots in our garden twisted
& iridescent. a miracle is difficult to make.
not because of the energy 
but the waiting. my father used to
work in the blue moon factory 
but he was let go a few months in
due to his lack of producing miracles. 
i asked him once what the place
was like & he described it as,
"a loud whisper." the hallways 
like throats. a hole in the ceiling
to track the white moon through
her slow blinking. only men were allowed
to work at the factory. something about
their nature made the blue moons
more likely to arrive in their syrup
& their feathers. the men acted strangely
when they left. my mother would find
my father standing on the ceiling
in the mud room & she would have 
to beg him to come down. sometimes
he will still talk about his time there.
he'll look at his hands & say,
"if wanting was enough." i have promised
myself i would never seek what he did.
i see how that place haunts him. 
i even once saw him on the roof
trying to paint the moon blue 
out of desperation. still, when i am alone
& have no one to hold me back
i will sometimes try for him. i will put on
my uniform. i will walk in the dark
through the corn fields toward the factory. 
pretend i am a regular. slip into 
the mechanism. i do not know if i try
for myself or for him.