I close my eyes at that time of night
so I can’t see her face again.
(A white trickle seeping into my sleep.)
Luna, turn your head so I can forget.
Be something new to me.
The string between two telephone bean cans;
I want to cut you
so the vibrations can cease.
You were once the ache to be closer to him,
but you chase like a shadow now;
a balloon tied to the window of my car as I drive away.
Luna, you saw everything.
We lovers plead for you to rise
so that we might have a point of
Solidity.
A rock to stare at together
from two separate beds.
We all lie beneath you
whispering, pulling, dreaming, clutching,
sweating until the covers tug against
raw skin,
cautious of your icy watch.
I wish the sky would swallow you whole.
Let go of my name, Luna. You’ve taken your toll.
Pode is the co-editor-in-chief of The Driftwood with Christian Berk.
Grace Gaines