The Moon is Frowning
His sharp, sterile grimace
is chipping
at me—two yellowing
blue-milked eyes
painting
the deep, red hills around
my spine.
I do not look…
my back absorbs the static
of his soft, syzygic ire.
And he’s at my
window now—annoyed, and
gleaming between wet
briar brushes. I hear him
dragging along,
touching;
trembling,
in smooth shadows along the
outline of my sheathed viscera,
like a silver
lion with clipped claws,
and shallow ribs.
And I know he's frowning,
just as I know the night is
ephemeral.
I turn to him,
coaxing him to grab at my throat,
to silence the “who’s there?”
between the tonsils and trachea
that taunt
us both.