I miss you in the moon’s light, whether she
is painted blue, white, or harvest orange.
It’s clear we’re both of us in thrall, under
lunar and each other’s push-pull power.
We worshipped her with guttural cries
never feeling sated even at the full.
When she was old, we fasted; but as
she waxed, those hunger pangs returned.
Our phases were that regular. Waning, I
would howl, feeling your absence keenly.
The crescent, a consolation. So too how she
endlessly undulates the sea’s highs and lows.
My back silvered by her unblinking eye, you
turned your inner one to mine once more
and between the faces of heaven-sent moons,
rendered me delirious, a celestial sleeper.
Lie again with me beneath her tranquil gaze.
In dreams, Selene, I plead it, woozily high –
and it’s enough, I see us, then hear you say:
‘there is not one, no, no, not one but you.’