A Poem in Which I View the Moon with Sewn-Shut Eyes

Where one thread clings to the eye of the needle;
two lids brought together in a parody of sleep,
Or death. Careful, don’t touch my blister eye, don’t
puncture it. 
It could bleed out everything I have ever seen.

My sewn-shut eyes trap everything.
Except the moon
is where it has always been,
itself a bloated corpse eye.
It watches me, shows me your face, its glow piercing my lids.

Charlotte Chappell

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