La Luna

I.

She is like
the moon
pacing the nights
in phases,

starting empty,
invisible,
incomplete,

or nealy so,

more like a shadow,
the left over smudge
from something written
    rubbed out
by a cheap pencil eraser,

or the darkness
created
when something large,
like a boulder,
stands in front of
a light source;

and then, slowly,
being filled
each night,

a bowl,
pale white,
ghost-like,

cracked through misuse,
and set aside,
outside

to collect
rainwater and
the morning dew,

until it is filled                                                         
with                                    
 
deep, wet sorrow,  
     
sorrow,
    cold 
and bottomless,  
 
sorrow that 
clings to her skin                                 
    like little pricks               

    when she delves
her hand
in past
    the cold
mirrored surface

causing rippling,
distorting everything
reflected,

or simmering irritation                                           
that radiates
and causes her to sweat,  

that installs
    frustrating lethargy,
lethrgy from which
    she cannot escape,

that pushes
in at her skull,
her brain
imploding
from lack of
blood flow 

a bowl which,
when running over,
lets salty drops
run down curved sides,

each drop
a cursed thought
born from her mind
but not her own.
                                                                
II.
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 
She is like        
the moon
when it is full

and
hovers heavy
above the horizon

deceptively large

because everything
is dwarfed
when placed
adjacent to her

and an ominous
red,
pulpy-like,
the core of
a blood orange,

that bleeds

onto a
fallow earth
where nothing
    ever comes

not even
crows

who see
no need
to seek seed
where none can be found.

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