Somewhere

there’s a moon

and men

have walked on it.

A bright,

thirsty thing

pinned to the sky.

We have swooned,

gone mad beneath it,

given it powers

beyond itself,

claimed it shines,

as if it sparks enough

even to melt varnish petals

or a beeswax candle.

It pulls

at the liquids of this planet –

stirs and sanguines

our waters,

brings down

our blood

with its orbits

and attractions,

the aesthetic

of an earth

we can’t dismantle.

We’ve planted a flag

on the Sea of Tranquility,

left footprints

on the Ocean of Storms,

without wavering

the state of that rock,

the planet, stars or

the vacant nothing

in between.

All

with no accounting

for this woman

witching

with a crockpot

heater, brush,

a knife,

who makes

solid into solid,

pushing fluid

on a canvas

stretched tighter

than the night

pouring warm colors

over cold – scraping

new away from old,

trapping,

cloud obscured

above a tree’s black

and empty arms

this cream caged moon,

a sap and pollen satellite

that leeks out crimson

and sheds its tears

in lavender.