What the voayer moon told me

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What the voayer moon told me

The trinkets that a traveler would tuck
inside the safety of a pocket
is akin to pleading a household
to bless
the paintbrush water –
the sun to not lap it up;

the same sun
that took in oceans
like it is happy hour.

We find it funny –
when you stare,
when you beg for the rain,
when you are drowning,
when you call us “Mine”,
when you keep us in your hair;
the songs you sing,
the precious little notes –
different, if I am Here
or There,
praying I hear it.

your courtesan stars
behind the smoke screen,
your billowing hands
stretching tablecloths
across the heavens –
counting your gardens
against the rust of your pennies,
chirping your bruises
to be kissed blue
thinking I alone have
in some imagined constructions
calmed all others
like a never- sleeping
mother goose.

As though I have christened
their souls
to be the jewels of your blessings,
like your hunts have not bored me to darkness,
like I carved your husks to my liking,
like your and everyone’s lover
is never on that
curved cliff edge
with runts of his litter
in a sack
inventing words for the first time,
your hungers
harking through your souls,
your deities outdated;

a thousand hundred millions
of my hands
you crave for cradling,
soothing,
swaddling your restless hearts
and crooning,
seducing, omitting,
feeding a crescendo
from my curved mouth
into your nightingale throat.

Yes, I am here –

that much we’ve learned;
But I am mostly just looking.
And you are only looking too.

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