by Nooks Krannie


Moon is a celestial object in the earth’s sky. The matron in the orphanage that I grew up in was on fleek most of the time. I was her favorite yatim. She once told me that if you dance on the moon’s surface, you can never trip on your feet and breathing is nothing but a formality there. She used to sneak in pieces of pink bubblegum just for me, double cinnamon explosion right in my mouth. I once asked her why no family ever picked me and she’d run her fingers gently through my hair, carefully avoiding my scalp. She would tell me that my face was not actually a face but a bowl of No Name rice pudding and my eyes were not eyes but two dehydrated raisins that were left in the sun too long. No Name brand color scheme is too yellow like a tub of GMO grease. Rice pudding has to have a smoother, creamier flavor which I lacked. The tides in our oceans and the length of our days owe a lot to the moon. We look at it at night and feel a sense of relief. Yet we always talk about the scars on the moon’s surface, the pits and the rocks. We think if only there were no scars, no craters, the moon would be breathtaking to look at from afar as if that’s its purpose. I never liked cinnamon. Till this day the smell of it is enough to induce severe nausea.




Nooks Krannie is a Palestinian/Persian girl and poet. She tumbls at and instagrams @nookskrannie.