Moonstruck

My favorite type of wind loves to pass

between chimes.         She is obsessed with away-ness

& sees stars on the window panes at dawn,

when my (search) history is coming back

with no results & nothing whole        pours out of me.

She has taken to writing about the haunted

woman who was tricked by a ghost

into swallowing glass,            her inside being broken

by pieces of broken, and the moon cracks

a grin   nobody pays attention to. She is

crumbling in the dusk & again           I have forgotten

the magic word           for an insincere smile,

or what to call a linchpin        slipping

from its crater. We chant at the sky

& our bare skin chases

every jade of aurora                beating against the wind.

By H.G. Cajandig

Biography:

H.G. Cajandig is an MFA candidate at Northern Michigan University, where she reads poetry for Passages North. Her work has appeared in The Ore Ink Review, and is forthcoming at Snapdragon. She is also currently working on a chapbook. Before attending graduate school, she interned for The Missouri Review and Persea Books.