When I open my shirt, the moon scribbles notes across my chest—all written in first-person luminous. The moon tells me each of my ribs is a rung leading up to her shine. Says the holes in my soul can be patched with courage, devotion, and an ample amount of crazy-for-life glue. She warns me to never allow my spirit to write a Ballad in Plain D-funct. Says to strip away the excess anger. Let go of old hurts and grudges. Find the exit wound on the body of bliss, the moon tells me. Then trace the bullet’s path all the way back to the love gun.