moon flea market for the easy gods

we go to pluck branches from
our favorite trees. i like the ones
with doe legs. you like the ones
with scorpions. i am tired in news ways
every week. it is like digging a hole
in the hard earth. sometimes i watch
as the dinosaurs nest in their
patches of sun. i too have been
too big for my history. the comet,
like a skipped stone, headed for
our science fair. the moon is full
& i makes me wonder how many galaxies 
had her before us. in the thrift store
i like to smell clothes. i like to check
their pockets for compasses & change. 
sometimes i'll find a grocery list & follow it
as a form of seance. we do not talk to the dead
enough. well, i guess that's not true.
we talk to some dead way too much & others,
most others, not enough. but i know there was
a salvation army looking place in the universe
where the moons were sitting. dust gathered
in the corners & tired people worked there
sweeping the aisles while the gods
with too much money picked up moons
& held them up to the light. picked at
their price stickers with their fingernails. 
too much. too broken. too many spirits.
our moon was just right to someone.
they are gone now. in the religion in my head
the gods are like shoppers. come & go. 
covet each other's ghosts. pick up the moon.
our wild & glowing moon, & say,
"this is a good deal." once i found the moon
while i was paging through dresses hoping
to find one i lost years ago in a fire. the glow
turned my hair into willow trees. i touched it
only for a moment. i didn't feel worthy 
to purchase her but i wish now that i would have.
i would have kept her secrets. i would have 
ignored the calls from gods, wondering if i have
that bit of silver they used to see from
the corner of their eye. that is the thing
about power. it is best to hide from it. 
find a whale to swallow you. 
then, never ever come out.