I dream in lunar craters
on the bright side of the moon.

My vocal cords, a reception hall
made of copper and gold—
the brides, in black dresses,
hostages in a chokehold,
waiting for a moment to escape.
And when they do,
their dance fades slowly in the vastness of the sky,
as they get lost trying to find their other one.

I tell myself:
if you could fly, you would have the same fate.
Even with the speed of light, you would never impact an ear.

If you want to dream, dream of what you can see; it's still just a dream—
but it feels more real.

So I looked above, into the night sky,
and I stared at the dark parts of the moon,
and I dreamed.
Albategnius.
Langrenus.
Aristarchus.
One.
Twelve.
Sevent­een.
Twenty-one.

In my dream,
the moon had bones
softer than our skin.
And she heard
as I screamed,
and she cared.
And all the brides
made it to the other side.
They danced till sunrise,
as I swallowed my own throat.

So like a wolf,
I wait till the sky turns dark,
and I howl
as the moon takes my hand
and tells me to let go of the metals
I hold deep inside of me.

keep me in your chokehold
till, in the night,
lunar craters set me free.