The Moon, a Tree, Myself 2017-12-09T02:55:01+00:00

The Moon, a Tree, Myself

The moon is dripping into my hair and into my eyes, but that is not where I want her. I want her in between my thighs melting there and dripping inside me. The moon is hungry and needs to feed on the gelatinous fungus that grows there in my empty womb. It will strengthen her so she may grow large and full, pregnant in my stead. But each month she must disgorge the infants into the waterways where they turn into all of the regrets of the heaving, writhing beasts inhabiting the cities of distain. In this way our magic is depleted and try as we might, we cannot have a child, me and the moon, unless it be shame. At least the trees understand. They collect my tears and the tears of the moon, which give them some comfort in a dying world. The trees are tender on their deathbeds and nurturing. The moonlight shines on their rainwet leaves and I press my naked flesh, imperfect as it is, into the bark until I am permanently imprinted with the patterns of the weathered, wooden skin. A tender threesome we make and yet still childless. The tree tells me I will be reborn as a moth, but die before I have the chance to fly. And the moon tells me I will be reborn as a fish who will be eaten by a stork to be reborn as the young of the stork, but fall from the nest to my death. It seems I will always be falling. Always falling from the moon who I fell from at the beginning of time.

The Night, the Stars, Myself: a mirror image

The night is singing into my ear and into my mouth, but that is not how I touch her. I touch her down below her thoughts glowing there and dancing inside me. The night is satiety and begins to feel the joyous fugue that grows louder in my eager throat. It will excoriate her so she may erupt clean and fresh, prophesying in my head. But each minute she must pronounce the melody below the cacaphony where it turns into all of the silence of the living, shining stones inhibiting the enemies of dittany. In this way our pupils are dilated and try as we might, we cannot see a song, me and the night, unless it be silent. At least the stars understand. They caress my tongue and the tongue of the night, which give them no comfort in an eternal emptiness. The stars are hot in their cradles and mystifying. The night colors dye their flaming limbs and I raise my naked voice, imperfect as it is, into the sky until I am perfectly embodied by the porcelain of the smooth, celestial light. A tender threesome we make and yet still soundless. The stars tell me I will be reborn as a dog, but die before I have the chance to bark. And the night tells me I will be reborn as a clam who will be eaten by a starfish to be reborn as the young of the starfish, but find I can’t speak with my flesh. It seems I will never be music. Never music from the night who I heard sing at the beginning of time.