Pulling the Moon, and Rituals of Healing

Pulling the Moon

I’ve never.I’ve never made love.    I’ve never made love to a man.    I’ve never made love to a man but I imagine.I imagine pulling the moon.Pulling the moon out of his brow.    I imagine pullingthe moon out of his brow and eating it again.        Pulling his brow in silence.A kind of silence when the moon goes out.        When the moon goes back and forth between us.        A kind of silence that goes back and forth.    A kind of silence lit for a second.Seeing ourselves for a secondthrough the eyes of a horse.    Through the eyes of the blue horse.Seeing through the blue horse that turns its headand speaks to us.Looking through the blue horse    that burns slower than my hair.My hair that burns the moon off.My hair with a hand inside it.

Rituals of Healing

Ramon, you were sick,        but on the pretty side of sick.        You weren’t getting better,            but at least you were pretty.

        We know all the sick        wear damp socks,    we know their clothes are soaked in prayers            until the sun performs its ritual of healing—        swinging its bare back across the clockwork sky.

Yes, the ticking nebula.Yes, the machinery.You are wet and pretty.

    I will believe in anything you do not        and bring it to you.    I will drink the blue night

gathered in your face    and weave your hair    from the eyes watching you.

        The edges of your body        touch everything        that isn’t your body.

    You are odorless.        Plastic even.        Your name is another word for fire.

What if we tell himthere’s nothing wrong,that he’s only dying?