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Girl on the Moon

I hide behind the cratered moon,
starlight-silvered and blued by comet's fire.
Hands pressed to a dusty arc of horizon;
constellations tangle, like burrs, in my hair;
barefoot child in a celestial sandbox.

Moon-dust, cold, rains between my fingers
like innocence lost,
borne away on solar winds
so strong they take your breath away.

I know what it is not to breathe for long minutes,
sailing in wingless escape across an airless night-sea
in a white billow of nightgown,
defying the draw of Earth's gravity
to become, myself, a constellation,
my only substance a pin-prick of faraway stars.

I think the Man in the Moon
must have been an Earth-child once,
lost forever in his own lunar escape;
and left behind, a hollow boy in time-suspended,
a shell beyond a solitary window so like my own,
where a child lies on faded sheets,
pink-painted toenails, yellow rosebuds, plush bunnies,
and the trembling touch of calloused hands, unshaven jaw;
the stir of warm beer-breath through long, pale hair.

Dry-eyed and silent beneath the press of weight,
she peers through the windowpane,
this other child, who cannot be me,
and her eyes turn toward the heavens
as if searching for the girl on the moon.





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If you're going to walk on thin ice, you might as well dance!