Double Theory of the Moon
by Tyler King
It calls through the small cold window of this room,
a static light the dust-choked sky now yellows.
I’ve run so far in deeper darknesses,
made friends with rabbits sulking in the brush:
those jade-thorned thickets bray for blood
or some other ancestral currency.
Come in, soft light, and fill my empty quiver—
I am cold; these are no familiar arms.
I leave the bed unmade and stalk the sill,
my palm against the fragile glass. I press
but all my strength lies past my fingers’ reach.
This dim terrain permits me no landmarks.
Come in soft light, and fill my empty quiver—
my hands ache for arrows, their rapid speech.
//
Words rain down light as arrowheads that ache
for their huntress’s aim. She comes, dressed
in silver. We kiss in greeting, cold lips
sealed while others stalk our mark. Familiar
outline in the brush: no rabbits, but a bird
with song caught in its final throes. Sing!
she says, holding open its arrow-fed beak,
and song shoots out: sticky, almost warm.
I feel her leave. My small world losing light
until a small pearl embeds itself in the dark:
O lustrous scar. I strain the curtains wider,
wider, but still cannot see home. Sing!
she said. I open my homebound mouth.
I call through the small cold window of my room.