Some nights, the moon’s a knife
and stars bloom like chrysanthemums;
other night’s the moon’s a winter apple,
a hard-boiled egg, or an onion,
and the constellations are buried
bulbs. Some nights, her loneliness
sharpens and the blade carves
out the shape of a human
heart. Some nights, her hips flow
like mother’s milk; other nights, her pelvis
is wrought from stone. Some nights,
her need is as cold and hard and naked
as the moonlit hardwood floors.
Some nights, her hands are wounded;
other nights, her hands wound. Some nights,
hard-pressed, she can’t tell the difference
between light and shadow, lust
and love. Some nights are starving;
others flock like crows. Most nights,
precipitation is unpredictable; it rains or hails
or snows. Almost always, something falls.
Most nights, there is flowering, or absence.
All nights, though, ache like a five-gallon
bucket that she empties, then fills.