The fallow months with art by Daniel Ari
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 by Flapperhouse .