The Moon is Frowning

His sharp, sterile grimace 
is chipping
at me—two yellowing
blue-milked eyes
painting
the deep, red hills    around
my spine.

 

I      do not    look…
my back absorbs the static
of his    soft, syzygic ire.   

And he’s  at my 
window  now—annoyed, and
gleaming between wet
briar  brushes. I hear him
dragging along,
  

touching; 
trembling,  

in smooth shadows along the
outline of my sheathed viscera,
like a  silver
lion with        clipped claws,
and shallow ribs.
  

And I know he's    frowning,
just as I know the night is
ephemeral.
  

I turn to him,
coaxing him to grab  at my throat,
to silence      the “who’s there?”
between the tonsils and trachea
that          taunt
us both.

This poem is about: 
Me

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