The moon is colder than ever, capable of belonging to us both. I want to swallow it, stow its brightness in my throat. Look there, spider silk stitched near the horse’s eye, and the fur on the cat’s belly, stroked by wind.
I want to ask if you ever felt the same tug, the way my head was turned, early on, toward the pail of milk, bluing with flies or the small white moths, wet and dying in the grass. Why it was rapture I found under a collapsed dome of snow, the sting and water light, bizarre reprisal of birth, pulled feet-first by my father.
I don’t know who made me cry over the pumpkin’s smashed grin, or who made me hear a green and silver lonesome in the old woman opening hard candy in the last pew. I don’t know why I hear the tick of leaves unfurling