Not moons

I've been meaning to write a poem about the moon

and how you call me the moon and

how I always imagine it hanging, bobbing

like an apple in my pale abdomen;

shifting, and the tides of my body shifting with its pull.

But, if I am the moon, you are the darkness I hang in. 

It has nothing to do with the color of your skin or

the pallor of mine. 

How could it? But,

You tell me that I'll regret you.
Maybe that's true,

And then we'll both learn, re-learn
An ancient truth. Regret

passes, just as everything.

And here, in this space,

I crave the darkness of our regret 

And the deep, deep darkness of your eyes,

The black specks of freckles under them,

The void both our souls are hanging in--

like stars.

Not moons.

Glisten

It's a trance,

where the scenery becomes no more than

colors and sensation:

the glistening water-- merely glisten

the sound of birds-- only sound

sweetness without fullness,

an empty depth

a turning inward.

It's moving so slowly here--

the breeze on the lake

the air from my lungs

the trees toward sky

It is calmer than the calm we learn to distrust.

Softer than a lover's breath in your ear.

More meaningful than the profound, dignified silence of empty rooms.

I'm writing with a pen that feels broken,

gathering together spare parts I always felt belonged.

They say,

all matter in the universe is expanding, pulling apart.

I used to feel that way too.

Now, I feel myself coming back together.

Each glisten and sound,

upward pulling tree

inward reaching sigh

--together.