The Harvest Moon

The light switch clicks loudly in the silence,

power’s off again - the fuse,

or you forgot to feed the meter. Either way,

I know better than to call your name

and expect an answer. Though I do it anyway.

Headlamp’s throw bars of light

that climb the stairs as cars go by,

I follow them up to your room,

framed in your window the harvest moon,

huge and yellow on the horizon,

stand in for an absent sun.

You lie on the bed

pale and slim as a candle,

waxen tongue hard and still

in your mouth’s shadow.

A love like anger rises,

sharp as the strike of a match,

that wants to push the flame of my tongue

against the roof of your mouth

until you catch, melt into motion,

roll back this wordlessness.

I go fix the only thing I can,

back down the stairs into the basement.

I reach in my pocket for a pound,

slant it in the meter, a golden half moon

hung between two fingers.

We’re both hanging, holding our breath

Waiting for the light to come back on.

Waiting for the light to come back.