I want to roll in it, the moon. To extend my tongue,
lick the silver, have every bud gasp aquiver, hang
the sun and his male lovers, push back my hair, have mothers
pour into my ears.

From out decanters, from out pitchers, from out bowls, from out cups
have them tumble, their bums stacking up
like fallen leaves.

Their stories crowding my mind’s eye, their wounds
pulsing in my nose, their fallopian tubes dribbling
down my lobes, dripping eggs
down my neck, pooling in
my clavicle.

Let the moon stuff me,
as she would stuff the tides onto the moors, as she would
shove the stones into the sands, smother her gargantuan breast
upon the rock face, stifle
the roads.

Have her eat me, as she has eaten boats and galleys,
as she has eaten darkness and the dimmest stars,
eat me wholly, in one gulp,
smacking her round mouth
over my blissful bones.

Moon, moon, moon
I entreat, take my skin from off of me, shuck me
from my body, and have me naked,
plummeting alongside you,
through all your glowing nights.