Graduating to Wet Stones

Finally you will know the slivered thumb of God, an equine white-eyed and lunatic, the uneven feline gaze, and why once I tried to write you inside a Virgo moon. You thought I stopped looking at it that way, but when I leave that is where I will go. Far enough away so I can let loose my triple decade of silences. Tucked lotus and reacquainting myself with fetal dreams, I will spin new answers: A thin cord belly to ocean, syncopating my neoteric voice with tidal ease. There will be nothing to pick up, nothing to pack away. I will not leave any tracks, only a peculiar waiting, as the pale body fills with crimson-- you always argued it was more like orange. Take note, there will be an absence. It will take root, spreading inside of you like the trillium we planted along the edge of the pond; doubling each season, until so overgrown it choked itself out. As I am disinherited from light, dawn to dusk, shifting from right to left, struggling with even rows and decaying roots, I'll bend my frame within the glare of the moon; satisfy my craving for what you call deranged-- belly full of insanity every mid to late September. That is what I will leave you with: the lunatic mare, a cat's eye slanted, God thrumming stars in the background, everyone draped in orange, but finally you will know why I called it blood moon.

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