A Friday Lament at 2:15 a.m.

Piqued is the moon, horned and sharp.
She dares try to tell me to let down my guard.
She dares try to alleviate my lock upon my violence,
my lolled tongue, my widowed heart,
my crown that pokes holes through the silk sheet of dark.
Crystal clattering, and sharp,
we move in tandem to the hark of the night.
We move as loons in silent stride,
our red eyes bright. I tell her my business is mine,
I tell her to hang.
These lessons I’ve learned and relearned,
the curtsey and strip of skin and womb,
the change, the movement,
the moment hounds in denim jeans can’t break me.

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