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The Moon Is Always Bisexual


The majority of the poems contained in this book are fictional, written for the sake of art. Names, characters, businesses, locations, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is entirely coincidental.

© 2016 Bethany Ebert

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author.

Book cover photo by Scott Griessel.

Several poems have been previously published on the Fetlife and DeviantArt websites. They were edited for content and formatting.

ISBN 978-0-463-60999-6

Third edition

Author’s Note

Growing up, I loved to read. My second home was the local public library. I started out with book copies of Bill Watterson’s comic Calvin and Hobbes and later moved on to such writers as Francesca Lia Block, Eve Ensler, and Allen Ginsberg. While hunting down feminist literature, I stumbled upon a book by Marge Piercy called Early Grrrl : The Early Poems of Marge Piercy. I fell in love with its stark honesty and insight into patriarchal society.

Readers of Marge Piercy’s work might notice my book title, The Moon Is Always Bisexual, which is a reference to her book title The Moon Is Always Female. I titled it this to provoke a reaction. In the media, the moon is made into a symbol, to invoke images of femininity, mystery, and even fickleness. Consider the Shakespeare quote, “O, swear not by the moon, th' inconstant moon,/That monthly changes in her circle orb,/Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.”

The moon is an evolving being. It is never the same from week to week. I think the same can be said for sexuality, at least for some people. Certainly, it is that way with myself.

I have labelled my sexual orientation a number of times, only to find that my experiences have changed my tastes. While I once identified as a bisexual and was quite militant about it, protective, I now call myself asexual. I am quite capable (hopelessly so) of falling in love, but my sex drive is less insatiable than it was in my early twenties. (edit: as of May 2016, I’m now using the label “bisexual” again) (not that it matters!)

These poems were written between the years of 2002 and 2015, many of them when I was living at a homeless shelter, some of them when I was still in high school, some waiting for the bus back in college. I have matured since then, and my opinions are not what they once were. If you recognize a poem about you, please keep in mind I am quite “over it”, and whatever words I have immortalized in this book do not hold true to this day. I am a very forgiving person, even in love, and I do not hold grudges.

Morning Haiku

Soft grey plastic bag,
Hard white Styrofoam, hard bread.
Hard walk walking home.

Fence cuts the blue sky,
Dark blue shadows drinking stars.
Sun another time.

Vicious dragon flower
Flame petals orange and red
Kept safe in my hand.

Moon outside, the day
Complicit in its ending.
Bright blue sky, white moon.

Library Haiku

Rain falls down coldly,
Fat wet drops on my fool head.
My books are past due.

Grey blue sky falls down,
Water attacking my hair.
I run when I can.

Books close to my heart,
Unread and held like babies
Overdue, rained on.

Wind gust throws cardboard.
A wet brown pizza box flies.
My new umbrella.

Hamlet and Horatio

Deep in thought, I
sucked on my tongue. The sun
pounded at my back as I walked
home in the early-morning heat. Tiny
remnants of Horatio's
shredded flesh clung to my
fingernails. I shoved my hands in the
pockets of my
dirty acid-washed jeans,
kicking at a
rock in my path. My
father would never

Hospital Pants

You never told me
the feeling when your lover,
back from the hospital,
tells you it’s okay,

when your guts fall out
and you doubt every word,

examine scars,
listen to stories,

hoping for something
to cling to that’s true.

The light blue fabric of
hospital pants will never
look like the sky.

Sometimes when you sleep,
I listen for the snores and
pray that you sleep the
whole night, safe.

The scabs on your arms
are not like tattoos
and there is nothing
beautiful or poetic
about suffering and sickness.

My German Ex

You ask how I am feeling. I am raw. I bruise
easily, slamming myself against the Berlin Wall
of your affection. My pale fat body is adorned in
grey and purple flowers to celebrate this stoic
German winter. You built a wall,
defined and strong. I didn’t believe you.

I wanted you. I wanted you to laugh. I tried
to be coy. I goose-stepped over. The German police
exiled me, and now everybody thinks I’m

My motherland has left me.
My lover has abandoned me.

How am I feeling, you ask me.
I ask, how is it you cannot know.

I sit and wait. I watch the news. It is a cold day.
I light a cigarette and I wait.


I have been sired by a bevy of boyfriends,
brown vampires, trained in death.

Now I am a vampire.
I, too, am trained. Favoring a long and
luxurious seduction, I maintain the illusion of
dormancy. My façade of sweet maternal
maidenhood is vital as technique.

The cherubic pale virgins
bored me. Instead I chose to victimize
elderly men. They are immune to vampires
in their minds, having dealt with so many.
Wives, girlfriends. Mistresses. They tell me
these things. They say I am different.
I smile and nod.

I place the poison in the cupboard, rotate the
Tupperware. They never suspect a thing.

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