Sincerely, The Moon

by Brian Clifton

(Part IIX)

We were guttural gibberish, gesture and pantomime. You with such heft, the moon, the moon of dry seasons, the moon full of himself. You the candle in the backroom. You the oyster flesh. You coated in salt and me. I the bacchant without wine, the bacchant on his knees. I the spit in strings on lips. I the gutted snake, steeped in bathwater. I shape without fang. I fish without flashing. We broken stones. We the absolute worst time. We snatched cold comings for our hourly devotions. I to you, and you to thee, and thee the floating between flicker and flame. The shadow cast by candlelight. The shadow of the windowpane. The presence of moon to move when motivated. We blessed these motions with our clutched lilac roots. We pulled the oceans –up like blankets, away and out of moon. We surrendered to serendipity –a moment’s dull prudence, the sibilance of prophesy through fallen leaves, through white down of crow, of snow, of faith in fools. I pooled my wakings slow, and slow moonlight through laundromat windows. You sunk with all that you had stolen, all that belonged to you, the moon, the wide circle of sugar. I sunk with all that you had stolen, all that belonged to you in the end. I the memory of handwritten Lamentations. I so terribly green –boiling sap when aflame.

(Part XIV)

We were guttural gibberish, gesture and pantomime. You with such heft, the moon, the moon of dry seasons, the moon full of himself. You the candle in the backroom. You the oyster flesh. You coated in salt and me. I the bacchant without wine, the bacchant on his knees. I the spit in strings on lips. I the gutted snake, steeped in bathwater. I shape without fang. I fish without flashing. We broken stones. We the absolute worst time. We snatched cold comings for our hourly devotions. I to you, and you to thee, and thee the floating between flicker and flame. The shadow cast by candlelight. The shadow of the windowpane. The presence of moon to move when motivated. We blessed these motions with our clutched lilac roots. We pulled the oceans –up like blankets, away and out of moon. We surrendered to serendipity –a moment’s dull prudence, the sibilance of prophesy through fallen leaves, through white down of crow, of snow, of faith in fools. I pooled my wakings slow, and slow moonlight through laundromat windows. You sunk with all that you had stolen, all that belonged to you, the moon, the wide circle of sugar. I sunk with all that you had stolen, all that belonged to you in the end. I the memory of handwritten Lamentations. I so terribly green –boiling sap when aflame.