"There is something haunting in the light of the moon..." -Joseph Conrad
The moon is pulling waves, even in our bedroom,
tonight, in the middle blue, and I am trying to find
where to talk
and my voice. I rarely speak freely and when
you look at me, I look away.
to speak from what I know. Simple words
naming happiness or
This is hard because have you noticed it's never
really fully dark, even at night? Even
snatched up and around to hide from the breeze
or the heat
or your eyes?
Under cover of the stars that fall when
obscurity's passion breaks.
I don't know how to unslant
sadness and even less
how to tread
these tides where my center
How to say that every single
nightdayyearlife was a lie and this
is the truth.
How to unglorify,
this pastpresentfuture and see
one moment as clay-
just hold it
in my hands, squish
my fingers without some
grand plan to mold it
a gigantic, daunting whole story
I have binged
on words, shoving them
into an overpacked
sentiment and then had to lug
them back home.
I have boxed them neatly, organizing
them sterile and tidy.
Square and tight for an overhead bin
and flight. I, tonight, can not
give them wings but
maybe, I can
defer to Angel of One Woman's, All Women's
Blackouts and Clean Sheets
and Fire and Hope and Love Affairs
and I can ask her,
"Do you know taut pull of moon,
its haunting light(ness)?
Do you know how to speak of one
the other. Other
without the one?"
Apart from all these words and still pulled
everything paired is one.
The moon speaks without
and I am trying
to say that (happy or sad) I love you.
The Sunday Whirl