Link to work: http://www.glass-poetry.com/journal/2017/march/moran-luna.html
The moon was absent the night we watched Pollox and Caster. It was more than a normal absence. It was purposeful. You were all dark blue and lake water. Fresh air and cool water breeze.
The moon was absent the night I planted a tree. Felt the deep urge to grow in blackness. To feed off of the hurt. You placed your hands in that charcoal dirt, covered and muddied with it like it was nothing. Looking at you drowned in my own disgust I wanted your hands on me more then. To feel but not see the way your dirtied fingerprints just might replace his.
The moon was absent the night I looked high cursing everything above me. It felt my anger and left before the scolding. Left the blame to the stars and sleeping sun.
The moon was absent the night I found myself. When significance was pondered and I felt larger than ever before. Larger than the sun and all the constellations.
The moon was absent because there’s beauty in the dark. Knows it’s not always needed. Relished in its pocked scars it has its own abuse.
I want to find the hands that plants the trees that grow in nighttime. So they know they aren’t alone.
I want to tell the moon I’m sorry, for ever thinking it couldn’t be trusted. That the stars were enough. That inside them I found her eyes like diamonds and quicksand.