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Kingdom of the Moon

Kingdom of the Moon Uncle Walter, dishonorably discharged from the army, built me a fort at the top of a rambling oak—a sturdy treehouse for a twelve-year old. As if I were a banished queen, I’d look out with binoculars, searching for red ants in armies, and whittle swords out of limbs within reach. Your silent enemies besiege you, Walter shouted, but you’re a whipper-snapper on the kingdom of the moon! Now in middle age, I laugh him off, but remember Walter as a little scary. I’m still nostalgic about the woods where I walk, classifying herbs, plucking moss sprigs and lichen. My family cemetery overlooks the whole range of sparsely populated trees (the forest clear cut for houses) where for hours I’ve searched the rubble of graves, cross-examined myself obsessively, and on some days, fallen in a chasm, a thin sallow moon with bluish craters, a catch- all for my inspiration. The scenery gets abstracted and vague as if wind breathed in mist and shadows grew the darkness where I memorized epitaphs, to honor sovereign moments I hold in common with the dead. Long ago, I lost my passion for analysis, for charting out shadowlands with exact coordinates. Now I catch voices http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Appalachian Review University of North Carolina Press

Kingdom of the Moon

Lilly, Rebecca
Appalachian Review , Volume 50 (1) – Apr 1, 2022
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Publisher
University of North Carolina Press
Copyright
Copyright © Berea College
ISSN
2692-9244
eISSN
2692-9287

Abstract

Uncle Walter, dishonorably discharged from the army, built me a fort at the top of a rambling oak—a sturdy treehouse for a twelve-year old. As if I were a banished queen, I’d look out with binoculars, searching for red ants in armies, and whittle swords out of limbs within reach. Your silent enemies besiege you, Walter shouted, but you’re a whipper-snapper on the kingdom of the moon! Now in middle age, I laugh him off, but remember Walter as a little scary. I’m still nostalgic about the woods where I walk, classifying herbs, plucking moss sprigs and lichen. My family cemetery overlooks the whole range of sparsely populated trees (the forest clear cut for houses) where for hours I’ve searched the rubble of graves, cross-examined myself obsessively, and on some days, fallen in a chasm, a thin sallow moon with bluish craters, a catch- all for my inspiration. The scenery gets abstracted and vague as if wind breathed in mist and shadows grew the darkness where I memorized epitaphs, to honor sovereign moments I hold in common with the dead. Long ago, I lost my passion for analysis, for charting out shadowlands with exact coordinates. Now I catch voices

Journal

Appalachian Review – University of North Carolina Press

Published: Apr 1, 2022

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