I Drank with the Moon

I watched the pregnant moon melt – a pearly blob
in the pulp of my onyx sleeplessness.
As I tossed and turned on the bed,
She played peek-a-boo through the lush filigree
of the wishing tree outside my window,
mocking my naivete, scorning at the maelstrom
ripping through my jilted heart.

I invited her to a late-night cognac.
She accepted, scattering her uppity sparkle 
on the blistered walls and cracked floors
of my restless atelier -- with eavesdropping walls
and kitschy souvenirs, carrying the dust of sterile memories.

We clinked the crystals and raised a toast,
I, to my wasted sepia breath and moribund yen,
She, to her borrowed sheen and waning arc.
The clouds waved and the stars smiled but half. 
We laid out our picnic basket on the leaden sky --
One, with the whiff of stale desire, and a taste of dementia,
A one-pot meal of life’s battle scars
Slow cooked on the embers of pain, love and loss.

Then the tired moon yawned and tucked herself to sleep
As I slid under the duvet of half-crocheted, gossamer dreams,
High on life…drunk on hope…a dandelion 
amidst the rubble of my being.