I stand at my window and listen;
Only the plaintive murmur of a swarm of cicadas.
I stand on the wet grass and ponder,
And turn to the east and behold you,
Great yellow moon.
Why do you frighten me so,
You captive of the coconut glade?
I have seen you before,
Have flirted with you so many a night.

When my heart, ever throbbing, never listless,
Had pined for the moonlight to calm it.
But you were a dainty whiteness
That kissed my brow then.
A gentle, pale flutter
That touched my aching breast.

You are a lonely yellow moon now.
You are ghastly, spectral tonight,
Alone
Behind your prison bars of coconut trees.
That is why
I do not dare take you into my hand
And press you against my cheek
To feel how cold you are.

I am afraid of you, yellow moon.

all the forbidden fruit I ever 
dreamt of--or was taught to 
resist and fear--ripens and 
blossoms under the palms of my 
hands as they uncover and explore 
you--and in the most secret 
corners of my heart as it discovers 
and adores you--the forbidden fruit 
of forgiveness--the forbidden fruit 
of finally feeling the happiness 
you were afraid you didn't deserve-- 
the forbidden fruit of my life's labor
--the just payment I have avoided 
since my father taught me how-- 
the forbidden fruit of the secret 
language of our survivors' souls as 
they unfold each others secret 
ballots--the ones where we voted 
for our first secret desires to come 
true--there's so much more
I want to say to you--but for 
the first time in my life I'm at 
a loss for words--because 
(I understand at last) 
I don't need them 
to be heard by you.

and Molly McCully Brown

Under my body’s din,

             a hum that won’t quiet,

I still hear what you’ve hidden

             in all the waves of sound:

each bead of pain

             that buries its head

like a black-legged tick,

             intractable but mine

to nurse or lure with heat.

             Please, tell me

what it means that I’ve grown

             to love the steady sound

of so many kinds of caving in,

             buckling down, the way

a body gives itself away

             like a sullen bride or the runt

who couldn’t latch? I know I’m just

             a hairline crack the music

leaves behind. I love

             the music, though I can’t keep it.