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Inside the Inside of the Moon Brian McCormick (1991) The night Neil Armstrong impressed the thin dust On the moon, I made my meld in diamonds, Playing pinochle, two decks cut and sussed With my foster family, Italian Americans, all now dead. Mom Vecchio Fears treatment in ignorance, her breast black, Malignant, eclipsing her aureole. Her sixth grade schooling in science inexact While on the TV screen Galileo Is proved correct by golfing astronauts. Armstrong’s hop from module videos To earth: Mom Vecchio lays down a heart. She asks, ‘‘When is he going to go in?’’ This puts a stop to the conversation. Again—‘‘When will he go inside the moon?’’ ‘‘Inside the moon? He’s on the moon’s surface.’’ ‘‘I mean, inside the inside of the moon.’’ ‘‘Inside the inside of the moon?’’ Nervous, I try to divine what she sees inside. ‘‘Inside the inside where the moon-people 243 244 inside of the inside of the moon Live, the way we survive inside our sky.’’ She made her meld, her mind made wonderful To me, that she could live inside a shell Around the earth, the firmament made real By faith in this Apollo miracle! Planets, moons, traversed by NASA’s angels, Instantly transfigured, flown by foster Love of God, she trumps with Pater Noster. The phone rings. My brother sounds far away, ‘‘Did I kill a black baby as a boy?’’ Calling from his shelter in Rockaway, The sunspot interference fades his voice. ‘‘Did I burn it in the oven roaster Because I went crazy, because I’m bad?’’ Sea of Tranquility, golden visor! ‘‘You’re thinking of the oven used by dad,’’ I said, ‘‘when he threatened to throw us in, Clicked his heels, called us Jews, and lit the gas. Now get some sleep, you’re imagining things.’’ Invisibles explode us into space The flag flaps in vacuum, and we salute The black baby inside the inside of the moon. ...

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