Alone in Paris I found myself with a cut on my ear,
Inside the hard, bony cartilage of the ear canal,
Inexplicably tender, with no certainty of how it had gotten there.
Except that a few days prior, upon leaving a friend’s house late at night,
I had looked up to the moon and pointed,
Saying (somewhat sillily, somewhat reverently), “Let’s rejoice!”
To which my friend said, you don’t even believe in God.
To which I say, I don’t even believe in the old wives’ tale
That pointing at the moon leaves a cut on your ear
And yet—there it is.
