The Man Who Touched The Moon Poem by Krista TaltsNassehi

The Man Who Touched the Moon


Two children, nourished at the
same breast, more
alike than not, were
more beloved than not.

With free and strong hearts
you skipped hills and mountains
of childhood, together.
The two of you.

One night the girl, moonstruck,
sang a crystal song and sent it
aloft beams of moonlight: “I want,
I want” she sang, “I want to be the moon”

The brother, older and wiser
answered: “for myself, I’m just
content with its magic.”

Time danced by
and the children put
aside childish things

The girl took wing and flew to a land that burned with icy passion,
higher and higher she flew and unexpectedly, really unable to stop,
looked down and with a small cry surrendered to the moon as Shiva
pranced and danced on hennaed toes below the icy passion of the moon,
now flowered red.


He could not follow – he knew by now
the moonlight hid no magic. He went
into that land to bury her and
try to understand.

His pierced forehead,
dropped fresh, clean
blood as he cried
his anguish to an
indifferent sky, a
suddenly empty sky.

His grief bled into a
lake where stars winked
too far to touch.

Caparisoned with grief,
he strode into the lake,
cleaving waves and ways,
moving ever closer to the
floating moon. Foot after foot,
arm over arm, he moved in
narrowing circles
of the lake.

And then the lake lay mirror
still, as still as flat as glass,
there fell from the sky
a potent spark, a silver
spark that set the lake to
dancing, churning the
moon into thousands
of shining sparks, roman
candles of many parts.

For one eccentric moment,
suspended in a brightest mist
arose slowly, from the scattered moon,
a silver fish that touched his outstretched
hand. Then he knew. It had come true:

She became the moon, and he was touched by magic.

And others? Those who wanted to own
the moon, and all its light, did come back,
with moon mud on expensive boots.