I don't like what the moon is supposed to do. Confuse me, ovulate me, spoon-feed me longing. A kind of ancient date-rape drug. So I'll howl at you, moon, I'm angry. I'll take back the night. Using me to swoon at your questionable light, you had me chasing you, the world's worst lover, over and over hoping for a mirror, a whisper, insight. But you disappear for nights on end with all my erotic mysteries and my entire unconscious mind. How long do I try to get water from a stone? It's like having a bad boyfriend in a good band. Better off alone. I'm going to write hard and fast into you moon, face-fucking. Something you wouldn't understand. You with no swampy sexual promise but what we glue onto you. That's not real. You have no begging cunt. No panties ripped off and the crotch sucked. No lacerating spasms sending electrical sparks through the toes. Stars have those. What do you have? You're a tool, moon. Now, noon. There's a hero. The obvious sun, no bulls hit, the enemy of poets and lovers, sleepers and creatures. But my lovers have never been able to read my mind. I've had to learn to be direct. It's hard to learn that, hard to do. The sun is worth ten of you. You don't hold a candle to that complexity, that solid craze. Like an animal carcass on the road at night, picked at by crows, haunting walkers and drivers. Your face regularly sliced up by the moving frames of car windows. Your light is drawn, quartered, your dreams are stolen. You change shape and turn away, letting night solve all night's problems alone.
Life, this charade of not-death.
Amnesiac of our nights together,
overheard talking in some other voice.
The great fruits of my failure:
silk milk pills with little bitter pits.
Who talks like that? Says we are
ever-locked, leaving everything
petalled and veined the way nature
pretended. Synthesized within
an inch of its life. O the many faces
of facelessness, breathing in the dark—
as if we could shape softness itself,
mold it around us like yams mashed
against a trough by a snuffling snout.
Our own. There’s no way out. Born
to such extra, we are born to lose.
No hairy fingers tapering to threads,
grasping for some lost last use.
Once we were hungry on earth,
soon buried like root vegetables—
to starve the soil as beets do,
growing in our graves.
But now we must remember
our way back to face-to-face,
to eye to eye and hand in hand,
and lock and step and key in hole.
Remembering how not to fall asleep,
we become so desperately drowsy,
and all cells strain to slow to a stop.
All desire to choose otherwise quiets.
No, no one can say we didn’t suffer,
that we weren’t swallowed whole.