Selena

It’s the full moon that is boring,

you orate as you set up your

reflector in the dusk.

Its vanity of look at me.

The crescent is a judging

karambit, one for the end of days;

a reaper of galactic grains.

The half-moon speaks of balance,

a cosmic yin & yan. Its meld of

frump/enchantress. The radiance.

The acne and its

aftermath of scars. You add you

speak of Luna not your face.

And then when it’s abstruse.

The shroud of

modesty. Or hiding what we

envisage to be there. A dusty,

pimply girl

inside a crater, squinting back with a

monocle. Our resplendence and

our wounds.

Andreas Gripp

September 3, 2026

photograph: Elle Sofe Sara / Mer Film