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.
Brenda Shaughnessy - 1970-
Why Is the Color of Snow?
Let's ask a poet with no way of knowing. Someone who can give us an answer, another duplicity to help double the world. What kind of poetry is all question, anyway? Each question leads to an iceburn, a snownova, a single bed spinning in space. Poet, Decide! I am lonely with questions. What is snow? What isn't? Do you see how it is for me. Melt yourself to make yourself more clear for the next observer. I could barely see you anyway. A blizzard I understand better, the secrets of many revealed as one, becoming another on my only head. It's true that snow takes on gold from sunset and red from rearlights. But that's occasional. What is constant is white, or is that only sight, a reflection of eyewhites and light? Because snow reflects only itself, self upon self upon self, is a blanket used for smothering, for sleeping. For not seeing the naked, flawed body. Concealing it from the lover curious, ever curious! Who won't stop looking. White for privacy. Millions of privacies to bless us with snow. Don't we melt it? Aren't we human dark with sugar hot to melt it? Anyway, the question— if a dream is a construction then what is not a construction? If a bank of snow is an obstruction, then what is not a bank of snow? A winter vault of valuable crystals convertible for use only by a zen sun laughing at us. Oh Materialists! Thinking matter matters. If we dream of snow, of banks and blankets to keep our treasure safe forever, what world is made, that made us that we keep making and making to replace the dreaming at last. To stop the terrible dreaming.