Poetry 2014 / Volume 45

Méliès, the Moon Has No Money — Linda Ann Strang

Not even a sixpence, she rolls in the gutter like a rotten orange. The moon was a modest movie star, pliant, musky but silent. Debutantes fainted to the sound of pianos. Along the Champs Elysées – Paris in ostrich, depressed – she was numinous, she lost luminous gloves. Everyone there felt obscurely caressed. The moon … Continue reading