draft

It was smooth and cool to the touch, a piece of the moon,
broken off from the stars and strung just for her,
celestial energy she could caress.

During the day, she wore a red flower brilliant
as the sun’s heat in her hair. But it was pure adornment
unlike the jewel she knew was her source, the moon,
that body that spoke to women who knew themselves.

Absently, with her fingers delicate as gossamer,
she reached up and touched the stone, a piece of the moon,
broken off from the stars and strung just for her,
a celestial body that spoke to her.

One evening, while standing where the island stretches
off the coast like the edge of despair or the beginning
of bliss, she said to me, “Your backbone rigid like
broken edges of rock could be strong instead of rigid.
Why ride the bicycle careening down the hill
like a reckless child who hasn’t learn to harness her power?”

With hands as soft as the down newborns wear,
she took my hands and placed them on her breast.
I half expected a lullaby instead she wailed;
a crazy bird its song like women weeping.
The screeching she spun off made me feel like the child
riding the bicycle careening down the hill.

I wanted no part of this. Where was the blazing sun, rays
lulling me into oblivion where days pass like heat waves
shimmering off sand? I’d rather suffer a litany
from a lover, his monotonous voice like white noise,
dry drowning me.


Then I felt her cradling me. I felt the cool, smooth stone,
pressed against my forehead, a piece of the moon,
broken off from the stars and strung just from me.
No wailing, but the sweet lullaby I wanted.
I knew her and the moon, that body that spoke to me.
She taught me how to harness my power.