Full Moon

In tonight’s gripyour confusion looks like clarity,your window like a mouth,your desk a sumptuous tableand the china cabinet like you mightcrack it open for the first time sinceyour grandmother left itto a cousin who didn’t want it.You remove the medieval serviceand if the fifteen-pound carafeis made of lead so what.You could have anything on underneathyour gray-green pants, and this dinnerof leftover stew could be studded with berriesthat will kill you before dawn.You might not watch a DVD afterward, noncommittally searching outyour companion’s hand,edging toward her breasts.You may throw her on the table, breaking it,because it is an Ikea piece of shit.You are not disposed to considerwhether this will harm her. You areeven less disposed to consider condoms.Perhaps you will bathe in the snow afterwardwhile the exhausted parents in the neighborhoodfail to try to arrest you to end your joy.It is suddenly obvious that harm must be donefor anything to flourish—the perfect expanse of snowhas to be melted where you fall hot within it,the table had to go, and the kid across the waywho is being raised, barely, on nectar and spreadshas to see you splinter your imaginary cagewith the mace of singing naked on the lawn. You are making a happy little pervert of him,and it is good. Too many years you spentas a miserable pervert and no one everdid a single thing to help.