Walking On The Moon
Since you left
I've been walking on the moon,
in the cold solar shadow, angel- and
demon-forsaken, unmused in a sinless place,
a floating cloud of cosmic diatoms weltering
in undifferentiated asteroidal algae, working the
eyes of night for some buried beauty, some pandemic
of peace to infect me.
The dark side is
a rock rack, stone bed for the syncope when
white hope exhausts all exits with her rapid retreat.
I undrill in the dustbaths, naked in wallows of comet collisions,
bathed in dunes of ruthless radiance, where stars are
sprinkled in spilled saltgrains over eternity, vague and
sharp on the black velvet tablecloth
I once wore for a dress.
The sun side is harsh, but
even I tire of constant dark at times;
I know it's the side you see, fat harlequin
croissant of a sickle honeyed with words defying
gravity, toasted in the gold heat of your almond eyes.
I live on the grilling grid, fancy you making a meal
brioched of dark chocolate void where somehow
I've flavored the filling in dreams.
I walk on and on
light as the dead and sometimes
I find debris; yesterday an artifact
cast from the celestial dig of thee and me,
a vessel that used to glow, pounded to atomic dust, settled
in the flattened shardshape of a heart where I stepped
silent, and stood with the sudden choke
of moon in my throat.
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Challenge: Fireblossom Friday
The inimitable Fireblossom asks us to revisit poems of the past and submit what we think is our best. This is a hard thing for a writer to pick, and I think I may only be picking a personal favorite here, but this particular poem is the one I thought of first, so after agonizing for an hour or two, I'm going with it..
Header image: A Voyage to the Moon, by Gustave Dore, 1868, engraving
Public domain via Wikipaintings.org
Footer Image: Moon @ Utrecht-zuillen, by HSmade, on flick'r
Shared under a Creative Commons License
If you'd like to hear the poem read by the author, click below: