Jill Dery “Moon Set”
Full moons, especially those on clear winter nights, seem grander and flatter here in Alaska than in anywhere else I’ve lived—certainly they’re more startling than those I remember from my childhood in billboard-lit Los Angeles. I’ve written poems about them again and again: I want them; I want to keep them forever on my own terms. Most often I’m defeated: my eyes, with regard to these moons, are “bigger than my stomach.”
One difficulty is that for me, the moons embody not only Alaska’s sublime beauty but also the banality of human ambition. Many of us can’t accept our space on its own terms: we have to re-form it into something we can use or understand; we have to own it. The result at best has to be disappointment—how can stuff be as good as dreams? At worst, it’s disaster or extinction. Coincidentally, our government is planning to travel yet again to the moon, but I doubt it will be to pick up all the trash we’ve left there. What will the moon landings bring us this time around, beyond the Teflon we got last time?
The complaints I make when I’m frustrated about what we do grate on my nerves as oversimplified. I write poems like “Moon Set” to turn the mirror—and the mocking—on myself, so that perhaps I’ll come to understand—and soften—my own humanity.
One difficulty is that for me, the moons embody not only Alaska’s sublime beauty but also the banality of human ambition. Many of us can’t accept our space on its own terms: we have to re-form it into something we can use or understand; we have to own it. The result at best has to be disappointment—how can stuff be as good as dreams? At worst, it’s disaster or extinction. Coincidentally, our government is planning to travel yet again to the moon, but I doubt it will be to pick up all the trash we’ve left there. What will the moon landings bring us this time around, beyond the Teflon we got last time?
The complaints I make when I’m frustrated about what we do grate on my nerves as oversimplified. I write poems like “Moon Set” to turn the mirror—and the mocking—on myself, so that perhaps I’ll come to understand—and soften—my own humanity.
Jill Dery has published stories in Bellingham Review, Fourteen Hills, and others; she’s published poetry in Antiphon, SPRR, Windfall, Broad Street, and Penn Review, with poems forthcoming in Tule Review, Blueline, and ELJ. Her MFA in poetry is from UC Irvine. Born and raised in Los Angeles, she’s lived in Anchorage since 1992.
|