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.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s