by Oshadha Perera

Last night the moon was on the news,

the amateur reporter’s eyes touching the sky,

as he went on about how it was a Milestone,

capital Ms and bold fonts.

A lonely telescope in middle of the Pacific

has picked up an image,

of the moon.

And on the moon was a plant,

a rose, its scarlet petals shining,

highlights jumping out, dancing in the moonlight,

soft, curling surface,

shining

            glittering

                        hypnotising everybody who saw it.

Florists fought with astronomers

with words and hands (and other things),

to see the rose through the telescope that floated in the space

because they wanted to see more,

and more

            and more

They named it the Moon Rose,

a new species, they said,

though its origin was a mystery.

But I knew how it came there

because I can still remember that day

like corals through crystal-clear water,

like the bedside table photo of me, mum, dad,

I was so high up that my nerves were tingling,

vertigo stinging my legs,

            and heart

                        and brain,

but I was smiling as I watered it,

covered it with soil.

I did it for grandma, whose name was Rose,

the day she died beneath the white hospital ceiling,

her eyes motionless after she gave me her last hug,

wrapping me in a polar fleece blanket of love.

The day she said she’d be on the moon

waiting for me.