I haven't written a poem in a while.
I write everyday, mostly for work.
I miss the me that lapped up the prickly pear juice of Pablo Neruda, that knew
every delicious poem by heart.
The moon lights my way home tonight
but I'm scared to wander too far alone.
I live in the body of a woman and lately,
she's weighted with loss.
I remember the morning my love told me I reminded him of the moon.
My half-moon eyes, my moon white skin.
Over milky chai tea and post-election grief, the astrologist tells me that I'm alive
with lunar energy and I think
of all the moons that I've slept through.
A new moon, every night.
How it feels to hold his hand, to shiver
in the fierce wind of a moonlit desert night
to believe in my bones that we will be alright.
I don't know how this other world works. My moon world holds just me. But some nights,
like tonight, I'm big enough to carry all the hurt
and all the healing,
my half-moon eyes,
my moon white skin.