Moon Shadow

When she awakens, she is dead.

His face, the Moon's, a hovering ghost

A screen against which cranes rise and crash,

And rise again …

When she awakens,

She is dead.

His leaving dries upon her flesh, so brittle

Tissue fragile: a dead butterfly's wings buffeted by wind.

She runs a cautious tongue across her teeth and licks her lips

Tasting only salt and grit;

The searching kisses, the velvet tongue, slip into memory's

Lavender-tinted distance, just beneath the dawn.

He would not lead her, though she followed

Hands sliding into the cave of his heart

Unlatching Death's door, calling down the Dark

Until his secrets swirled inside her

Whorls of dust. The pressure and the stealing warmth

A dance of motes, a myth of fingerprints.

When she awakens, she is

A tendril of mist encircling

The moon’s silver shadow

A variation on a theme

A last note lingering in still air

She is the cry of a mourning dove in autumn:

She can see her breath.