I believe in the moon and its cradle sky. Gravid master: big and effulgent and white, winking– driving all the dogs crazy.
It used to be this way. When no one howled and they all tucked their tailbones between their skin: I spent several nights pouring Everclear into Slurpee cups and lapping at the world’s shoelaces. Sitting on the edge of the bay on a borrowed blanket, vomiting up some sort of philosophy about the closing of the day; the way it moved like an itinerant wave that followed me—and only me—everywhere I went. It grabbed me each sunset. “Come here, girl!” it hollered and threw me to the floor. It took the pieces of breath I had been saving for a rainy day when I would finally make a declaration. I’m too dizzy. Wherever I had been standing, I was now wilting. My mouth was moist but most everything else was desiccated. I retold this often to whomever and always myself. The way schizophrenics tell three thirds of themselves to take it easy and the other half is grabbing the window sash and throwing it up and flying away. How many parts is that? There was a glance of sadness or kindness or something else and then a sip. Then my overeager lover attempted to go down on me sixteen different times to prove his might to absent men. I wanted to gulp the last of my rainbow cyst and move on but I let him make me moan a couple out before I rushed into the ocean, arms spread open wide just begging to be taken to the place that sharks dine. I wanted to be eaten with force. I wanted to be taken alive.
There were so many of us. All these people swimming in subdued psychosis and small talk that had me shaking like a weak shed caught in a thunderstorm. All these sick people and me and no God between us. We found summers that never ended and that seemed better than heaven but we age and we wonder: whose side are we on? You wanted to kill something inside of yourself and you kept naming it my ex. Wait until the stars line your path and you’ll see– it’s you. You’re the only face glowing back. Like a haunted conch shell sitting on some little girl’s dresser next to the unremitting twirl of a dancer: it’s elegiac twist, pointed shoes, sunken chest, pencil thin lips, little volts that break your coral-colored skeleton in half. She just wants a pretty paperweight and you just want your slimy, little body back. A consecrated beast just learning how to yelp. Breaking your back, breaking your hips and your jaunt to rush up a stake and plant yourself on it. You’re out of ideas and droplets of blood and the dirt’s giving birth to more maleficent flesh. I’m out tonight, winking like a lunatic, and giving birth to breathing eggs. Pacing the place, listening for the long whimpers of lost wolves. “Come here, boy!” I’m much brighter tonight than I’ve been in a long time.
I shine like the moon.