Luna

Maybe no one is ever truly done howling at the moon

especially when, like a lone milky breast,

she hangs heavy in the sky asking to be suckled,

worshipped, eaten in a frenzy.

Dimpled temptress leads the wolf to where?

To the kids in mardi gras masks at the house party

& the mugging behind 7/11. To that drunk couple kicking the pile of leaves,

long night-kisses on eyelids, & sleepless thoughts of past love.

To outhouses in the park, warehouse raves,

harbor seals, & cozy tucked-in flower beds.

To barbed-wire fences, broken fences, chained up dogs that growl

then whimper sweet songs of her instead.

Shiny teeth like everything else,

this smiling crescent on the dark.

Her slave-driver chariot drags the tides

with sails of blue and black.

Maybe no one is ever truly done howling at the moon.