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"Two Tiny Moons"

my eyes are like my throat

feral pools
with salted hair

the soft fluff at the bottom of a lake
is really a movement
made by feet

which are small creatures
living down there

far away


my eyes are like my throat

perched mind-hawks

killing

from the inside
but way higher up

gulping
whole words

fly

run


my eyes are like my throat

doors
with vertical scratches

opening to
the soft whirring of sharp blades

moving

air

slime-doings

shapes

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………

I open the door and turn on the light, and I see an image of my self on my hip, bouncing me up and down, creating a dance out of dinner and fun, little rivers, contained in cups. For one year I just hold and bounce us, and eat and drink. When you begin to sing, I’m amazed, and then we begin including animals. You hold the cat, and I like to touch the cold window, inscribing into the magical fog. I draw fish and write words like “duality” and “backwards” while you stick your tongue in the cat’s ear. We do grow tired of healing. We will know when it is time to merge or separate, disappear or just stop the effort because God will be there, holding a cup of milk and two tiny moons; then we will know it’s alright to let go and slide down toward our feet, to adjust to the bouncing, swaying earth, and I can finally stand down into it, up to my navel with it, up to my crown with it. Its bodies of water and pockets of ether will cloud up around me and know how to swallow it all.

(Enter African Dancers.)

-Published by Skidrow Penthouse