Water and Moon

The sky stretched out, an ocean above us. The moon
rode thick foam waves and the stars were tiny plantkon lamps
flickering above the stillness of the chimney. We pitched camp
on the patio, submersed in our beach chairs and sipping our wine
coolers in an air already thick with the approach of June.
We were washed over with a delicate brine.


From inside, we could hear my mother singing "Unchained
Melody" while my Father lay in bed, reading his Hess.
You wore your hair down, free and wild, my gypsy princess,
and danced to a chorus of invisible crickets. That night
we entered into the world of touch entirely and unrestrained,
weaving our bodies together like water and light.


Spring was a choir of a hundred mermaids' voices.
Spring was an endless circle of light. Spring was
the architect who carved out a thousand doors, doors, doors,
holding back the rising water, the pulsing moon, and we,
my love, we held the key, we made the choice
to open every one, unleashing the deluge of sky and sea.

January 16-17, 1990
Background art created by Brandi Gabrielle Hubiak