The Kinloch Rivers Memorial Prize
Winter 2015
Terri McCord


What has the moon not
been? A flashlight, bowl, face,
prompt for werewolves, mirror,
puller of tides, a pupil,
yarned God’s Eye, even Armstrong’s  leap 
for mankind—
these are all familiar. Defined by shape
or glow or myth, how is it
ever new 

as metaphor until 
each month, it is new and literal
then back again, the sky
the inside of a magician’s sleeve,
the moon a magic coin
reappearing from behind
the ear. See the smile. See the hammock.
Maybe it has not been
a dollop of whipped cream, a contact lens,
doorknob to the future, the crosshair,
loss of pigment spot in the skin,
a mere piece of clay cratered
with fingerprints, and that smear
which contains 
one cell on the glass slide.

©2015 Terri McCord