Tag Archives: moon-cleansed

FLAPPERHOUSE’s Most-Viewed Pieces of 2018

Everywhere Eyeballs Are Aflame – Odilon Redon, 1888

With a new year ahead of us, let’s look back at the 10 pieces that attracted the most eyeballs to our site in 2018…

10. “Betula nigra,” Avee Chaudhuri’s beautifully twisted short story from our Winter 2018 issue.

9. “Chemtrail Mist of the New World,” C.D. Frelinghuysen’s paranoid & poignant flash fiction from our Fall 2018 issue.

8. “X-Ray,” Rosie Adams’ unnerving yet captivating flash fiction from our Winter 2018 issue.

7. “Sycroax Martinez is a witch from Corpus Christi, Texas,” Luis Galindo’s spellbindingly brilliant poem from our Winter 2018 issue.

6. “Too Late for Anarchy,” Marc Harshman’s wry and wistful poem from our Summer 2018 issue.

5. “Fetish / Recluse,” Rita Mookerjee’s magically sensual & intoxicating poem from our Summer 2018 issue.

4. “moon-cleansed,” Monica Lewis’ cosmically beautiful & gut-punchingly powerful poem from our Winter 2018 issue.

3. “Questionnaire for the Gravitron Operator Before I Ride,” Jennifer Savran Kelly’s curious & captivating flash fiction from our Fall 2018 issue.

2. “Knock Knock” Todd Dillard’s vivid & tender poem of love & parenthood from our Summer 2018 issue.

And our number one most-viewed piece of 2018 was “Snapshot from the Revolution,” Perry Lopez’s historical & horrific short story from our Summer 2018 issue.

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“moon-cleansed” – Poetry by Monica Lewis

The Truth About Comets – Dorothea Tanning, 1945

“moon-cleansed” is one of three cosmically beautiful & gut-punchingly powerful poems by Monica Lewis from our Winter 2018 issue.

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I TRY TO TELL MY BRAIN, you are an organ, luminous in your undulating layers, and like a comet, you are not a dirty snowball of space, you are made of dust (my trauma, my moments of star bones, love that combusted my life, on repeat, a recurring dream i continue to pirouette through), and dust, dirt can glitter if the light of the night hits it just right. like a comet, you have brought water to my most deserted, desiccated parts. i try to tell my brain, you are a little girl in her first chiffon, and when you spin, you set the earth aswirl in possibility: the softest wisconsin green grass of a dream, a field of lavender, spreading, and the blood-jet of sylvia or every poetess who preceded both your grace and your pain, or those slippers, ruby made into a dress, reminding us all that home is the heart we all seek. brain, often, you cry. often, you must find a moat to make certain no sailors make way through your lake of ache. brain, your skull is simply one big bone and bones break easily and often, brain, i do not always handle your structure, or even your waves of sea with all the love the ocean deserves, but here is my promise today, right now: i will hold you as my mother did when i pushed out her womb and was held at her breast. i will kiss your bloody body. i will be unafraid of the grime, the slimy guts. i try to tell my brain, you are an organ, but you are the life of all that makes me a life of my own, and i will claim you as my own. i will sob at the life of you now out of me and now all of you. still, i will do my best to protect you as a wolf does; come for its kin and it will kill. and the bones of the hunter, the mother will lick as clean and as pure as the moon.

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