autumn is always harder for us.
the chill sinks into our bones and
we are dry twigs off of birch trees,
bunched up and left by the fire pit,
waiting for the next clear night sky.
by the time we were old enough to realize
that our love swung in great, wide, sweeps
and sometimes threatened to drown us - it
was only the draw of the full moon - we were
also wild and carefree and starving. we
sucked in lungfuls of helium and let ourselves
float through the milky way, and we watched
the constellations move around the earth as
we swallowed up the moon in heaping spoonfuls,
laughing as the darkness swallowed us, too.
We are hunters of the dawn light,
prowling around in the tall grass, lurking
like a spectre in the fog, nothing but shades
of colors and the hint of motion. Last night,
we ate the moon, she filled us too full of night air
and we cranked our ribs open a little wider to make room;
tonight, she returns and bares her teeth at us from her perch.
We think, she must be cursing us, but we cannot hear it. She
is an open mouth in the darkest night. Our veins glow beneath our skin,
carrying the last traces of our dinner, burning with all that’s left
of her old light. Tomorrow we will watch her sink into the open sea
and we will begin the hunt again.