When lucid whiteness

adorns the night, we

delight in the moon.

Walking barefooted, cold pavement

meets toes and we follow

our shadows while they grow.

Crisp mint air breathes freshness

against our faces, and

the street lamps hum–

infinite insomniacs emanating

fraudulent light. Ivory beams

stretch

and sprinkle the starched green leaves

of summer trees. We

lay on our backs in the grass,

dew collecting on each blade,

under the flashlight of night’s sky, our skin

speckled a powder blue.

We are enthralled by the moon.

Slivers of graygreen iridesce

out of the orb, swim

down to our noses like shards

of blue bottled glass,

invisible.

By morning the orb is no more

than a ball–wide, pitted

and hollow. It has become

a smear, a mirage–

spilt milk frozen

in drops against a baby blue sheet.

We long for the moon.

On the ocean its glow

spills

like floodlight over cobalt waves, like

an egg cracked open, sunnysideup.

It fills our skin as

we dig

our feet into the sand, writhing,

anticipating liberation.

We howl at the moon,

high pitched

and screaming. The bellow echoes

against the surf, curls

into the ever-moving black abyss.

Mom taught us how.

“Everyone’s a lunatic after all,” she says

and takes her stance, veins

bulging, head

thrown back, blacks of her eyes

absorbed

by white, elbows locked, arms

stretched in her wake.

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