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All the public places I’ve cried:

airports, beaches, parking lots—


so many, waiting rooms,

parks, train platforms,


benches. Whose loss

is shed? The bluish


distillate in Rilke’s

saucerless cup was watered


down with tears

to be more bearable.


In this morning’s coffee

tears dissolved like comets


into darkness. If I need a good cry

I watch that astronaut singing


Major Tom on his guitar.

Astronaut tears are Jell-O.


Even this physics

makes my heart confetti.


You’re too emotional, you said,

as my eyes irrigated the flower beds.


In India, Colombia, Chile, Japan

and the Philippines,


you can still hire a professional

mourner to do your bidding.


Crying in public

ought to be easier.


Designated trees

or hilltops might help.

Or, a crying hour,

where we can howl


in unison and then return

to our diluteness,


I mean dailiness. 

Tears are inevitable,


when headlines read

like requiems. When


Cihuacoatl prophesied

the conquest of Mexico


all she could do was cry.








There’s a supermoon

tonight. This November is hotter

than most.        Here we are:

                           clung and tilted closer

                           to that cold volcanic cluster—


to be more exact, we’re having one

of our existential talks

while moon-gazing

on the car hood.


                            Holding each other,

                            we are gravity.





Tonight we’re in the air

watching          a projection

                          of the northern lights bounce off

                          the overhead baggage bin.





Tonight, moon,

you’re average.





Tonight, moon, you’re warm,

oversized and nostalgic,

like an energy saving light bulb

made to look vintage.





The next supermoon               

will be in ________,

some of us will still be here.





We’ll get matching

micro moons tattooed

on our forearms this summer.


                        There’s been a thorough Google search.

                        But, there’s no logic behind it,

                        except to miss each other less.




In a shadow

I’m edgeless—

even the skyline is



In Florida, dusk

is the color

of spoonbill

and night

is anhinga

drying           its wings,



How the moon is always

worth pointing out,


especially when it counters

the setting sun like a compass

needle tracing itself                    into darkness.


How night               falls

then day

breaks                 again


into its disco

              of shadow

     and glare:


here,               I catch

a glimpse

     of the galactic                    sundial

    we’re rigged into.

Gloria Muñoz’s writing has appeared in LUMINA, Yes Poetry, The Rumpus, Best New Poets, Acentos Review, Forage Poetry, The Brooklyn Review, and Entropy, and elsewhere. She is the author of the chapbook Your Biome Has Found You. Gloria teaches creative writing at Eckerd College and she is a proud co-founder of Pitch Her Productions, an organization dedicated to women in film. Learn more at

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