My hunger, love, is like an alien moon.
I know you feel its phases subtly
as tired nights pale from busy afternoons.
The strange globe with its aching liquid pull—
astronomical and inopportune—
has stirred storm clouds lately, love. It grows full
and stirs tides and winds into two hoarse cries.
In here, we’ve battened down, sorted the mail.
Do you remember the last time that eye
closed in satisfied rest in the cocoon,
turbulence muted under the duvet
of earth’s shadow? Did you know sixty-two
moons (nine of them provisional) fly by
Saturn, not to mention the rings? And do
you know how insistent my orbital
gravity winds up? Even typhoons blow!
You’re the sovereign sea, but I’m thirsty, too.
|This is my crazy calligraphic treatment of my own poem. |
I'm excited that this poem is recently or about to published