The moon was a fist,
the fog a loose linen sleeve,
the night a dark muscle,
the street a clean, wet bone.
She arrived messy, damp,
fawn-eyed in my new nest
on Thomas Circle, hastily
cleaned. Streetlights swept
the ceilings, spotted handfuls
of one-off constellations,
a crooked new zodiac, laughter
pulling us to an aluminum bed.
But the moon was a fist
pounding through the fog,
backed by hairy-starred night,
breaking tomorrow's bones -
this second tryst was the last.
I couldn't bring myself to be
both her lover and nurse,
my mind sagging, anesthetized
by my cancerous mother
undying in crawling spirals.
It was a mistake - it is so hard
to find someone who searches
inside you for the things
you are, the reasons you are,
what you might yet be. But,
after all: the moon is a fist.