New Moon

(after Laurel, who wrote a poem after Lorna, who wrote a poem after me, who wrote a meme poem after Dorothy)

That night after the theater,
me and me crossed lives
a second apart. Tick.
I knew the tin man’s chest
would always be hollow. Tock.

You would find out years later.

We were in my car, the top was down,
I saw the moon pedaling
the sky in slow motion.
She sliced a yellow path
through the canopy of clouds,
her crescent edges sharp as hunger pains.
She was young and thin and her face
made mine glow like a moan.

I was falling.

Falling like a glass kite
on the sky's black painted bricks.
Lava flowed around my pelvis.
My skin burned like a witch.
I saw your dark mane swooping
up my chest, your anklet’s bells
reminisced of Pink Floyd’s “Money”
while your leg stretched below
the glove compartment.

You asked me if I loved you.

I said Yes.

Tick. If the moon’s crescent edge
had sliced my silver can,
instead of clouds,
you would have known the truth
much sooner. Tock.

DQ 11/7/06