Hungry Moon

The moon outside is hungry.
She swells and rises,
her skin’s ghostly glow
spilling out pale rays.

She is hungry for howls.
Hungry for everything
we’d rather stuff away,
tuck under our hips, in the crook
of our necks, or right below
the breastbone.

The moon is a messy eater,
shreds of your emotion get caught
between her teeth.
She’d take an authentic meal,
something carnal, sensual, something
that makes your knees tremble.

She’d rather watch you spill your insides,
purge your deepest fears.
She’d rather watch you holyroll with joy,
or, weeping, offer yourself into her open arms.

She is not asking you
to hold it all together.
She’s not telling you to be dignified.
She’s not saying to shut up,
to keep quiet.
To keep it pretty.

She’s the lump in your throat.
 She’s agitating
that growing desire to scream.

She will not turn away
when you find yourself
in a ball on the wooden floor.
She will not hit you
if you laugh at the inappropriate time
or mutter swear words under your breath.

She will call you honeychild.
Stroke your hair, make you tea.
Curl around you with feathered limbs
and coax you out into your own
wildness.

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