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Winter 2018/19

Cornelius Eady


This guy makes Is Getting in Buzz Alden’s
Face, or perhaps it’s that he wants Buzz
To admit, to cry, to repent that it’s all been
A joke, a hoax, that Moon stuff, just something
Home made with lights and mirrors; remember
Playing “Space-boy”, your cardboard box lifting off
The living room carpet, and there you go,
The ceiling, the roof, the falling off of the streets
Through your scissored window, away, away,
Then the corrugated darkness, and stars.

But it’s a cardboard box, and the gravity
Of your parents house, where a kid, as we know
Has to snap out of it, sooner or later, or they
Begin to worry about where you’ll land.

So down from the beautiful, silent orbit,
That slow brake called reason, the weight
Of the world dragging your arms. Come on,

The man insists, like your father’s hand ruffling
Your pillow with a quarter, caught, when all
He wanted was for you to believe, just for a bit
Longer, that that baby tooth of yours called
Beings invisible to your bed, stop lying
And tell us the truth. O, intangible worlds,
An astronaut tightens his fingers, and his fist
Is launched to the chin of the idiot moon.
                                To Tracy K. Smith

CORNELIUS EADYis a poet, playwright and songwriter and teaches in the MFA Program for Writing at Stony Brook Southampton




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