The vagueness of leaves emerge. They, like ideas, land on our
windowpanes where an absence is filled, a shape identified.
It is a night of endless moon when plants sown in that season blossom
and bloom to become huge. Blood is stirred under the skin.
Sex in that fullness is full, erect, vulva-loaded, thick walls, moist,
holding with meaning and memory of ancient seasons. These too stream
with prescient light from their distances. It is a celestial marvel!
It is the night when she sits on her bed like a yogi, the front of her
body opened fearlessly to the rising moon. She must be upright.
The flood of light is intense. A pin could be found.
The moon would have seen her anyway from the inside. The rise and fall
of her blood, like the ebb and flow of tides would have been
consummated. What a night for consummate loving!
She addresses her need alone. She once would burst into tears when he
did not come to visit, but now, she faces the music reaching into the
night of light.
Her breasts felt warm, firm. She caressed the fecund drop. He left her
because he said her breast had dropped. Fool, she said. They were alive,
pregnant from their inside tissue tonight. Yes, they were hers and no
one, no one, especially a man could tell her they were not keepers of
life’s nutrition. Yes, they were more under this moon — rising,
thickening in her fingers —-.