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
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
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.