by Holly Welker
We both know moonlight shining
through a crack in the gate means
leisure. Darkness is a man tattooed
for battle; you radiate nothing
but light. You worship a goddess
so pale, arched and slender she
is almost a crescent moon and
nothing more; I cannot trust her.
Still, you gave me your right hand,
then your left, while the rest
of you is reserved for a woman
who provides you with children
but turns away from the small
scratchings you say are stories.
Once I forgot the word for
bitterness. You thrust your hand
into the air, then smiled until I
parted my lips to smile back.
And then you placed your fingertip
on my tongue, certain I would
recognize the lingering taste.
I do, even in this small dose.