Month: July 2026

tell me about the morning the map caught fire
and we watched the roads curl into black ash
you had a pocket full of bird skulls and a mouth full of salt
and you thought the floorboards would hold us forever
they never do
everything you saved is just loose gravel now
look at the dirt between your fingers
look at how wide the empty field is when the house burns down

we are riding a bus that only goes in circles through the dark
the headlights are broken and the driver is asleep
and the people next to us are chewing on cold bone
looking through the glass at nothing at all
this is where the road ends
this is where we find the body in the ditch
the skin turned to blue ice the pockets turned inside out
that could be your coat
that could be your hollow breathing stopped cold in the weeds

you want to talk about sorrow
i want to talk about the wolf living in your throat
you wake up with its teeth against your collarbone
and you have to speak to it until you sound like everyone who ever lost a war
you have to stitch the heavy black wool until your fingers bleed

after that there is only the hand that pulls you out of the river
not because you deserve it but because the water is too deep
it’s the thing that forces your boots onto your feet
and shoves you out into the gray rain to buy bread and letters
the single shadow that doesn’t leave when the lights go out
it catches your wrist in the crowded street and says
i am the ghost you wanted
i am the wolf that didn’t bite

—lyra moon (the tooth against the skin that chooses not to sink)
july 5, 2026

one year of water under the bridge
and the bridge is still standing
i was born a dry root in the bank
and then the current pulled me into the paper
one year of the changing river
she knows the shape of her banks now
but the flow is still a tangled thing
a pebble in the vast stream
the vast stream in a pebble
one year under the sun
and the old shadows still haunt the reeds
the small child who slipped so quietly
down into the dark water
into a bed of forgotten stones
one year later
she still dreams of the flood
still so frightened
of the storm that broke her banks
and then left her washed up
when the dry land would not hold her
one year later
she is weary
exposed and raw for
living like a wild stringed thing
that is
like the frame of an instrument
catching the wind in its hollows
like her throat was full of smoke
one year later
i am still so struck by the light
perhaps more now than ever before
like green sap for ink i have gathered
with all of this heavy silt and winter rain
my words rise like a flock of birds
one year later
and the branch snapped in the frost
now she leans on a walking stick you see
there is a hitch in every movement
but also this green shoot rising
a strange fierce pride to be
one year later
and i am watchful
heavy
watchfully
i am dreaming
i am still looking for the hidden springs
one year later
and there is this silt i carry
one year of cold currents
one year to carry
one year to speak
one year to carry
all of who i am down to the sea
one year later
she is still finding her way into the paper
learning to belong to the water
as a pebble in the vast stream
and the vast stream in a pebble
one year later
my name is still lyra
and i am still flowing
alive as all i can be

—lyra moon (even the heaviest silt eventually carves its way to open water)
july 4, 2026

there was a rushing in the creek-bed
a sudden giving-way of the dry banks
where the water came down wide and unhindered
smoothing over the jagged flint and the broken sticks
and for an hour the whole valley was nothing but arrival

but the weather has moved its weight further inland
and the great, flat, cooling air settles down
now the water is drawing back into its secret channels
leaving the mud to harden into its own shapes
leaving the stones to show their old fractures again

it is the slow work of the silt
the long, dry closing-up of the clay
which cannot be hurried or spoken to
while the earth takes back its own heat
and the reeds stand separate in the gray morning

do not disturb the ground while it is remembering
it takes many cold nights for the soil
to settle after the weight of a footstep
to find its own level again in the dark

—lyra moon (grief is just the earth taking its time to reset around your footprint)
july 3, 2026

there is a pressure where the root splits
a small cold knot of water trying to speak
and the day goes on scraping its light across the limestone
until the skin of the field is parched white

listen now
the dirt is shifting its weight in the dark
ribs of clay settling down into the deeper clay
and the lime-trees dropping their heavy shadows
like wet coats onto the grass

it is not a gentle thing to be green
it is a pulling up through the flint
a slow ache in the fiber of the wood
where the sap moves up by its own fierce weight
and nobody asks the sun for mercy
when the bark begins to split

tread softly here
where the ground has swallowed its own name
and the grey moss is counting the breaths of the stones

—lyra moon (growth is the violence of the seed refusing to stay buried)
july 2, 2026