My face was skinned last night
the moon was neither full nor new
just a waxing moon that no one
writes about or notices within it
some sacred meaning
not crescent or harvest illuminating
a strange auburn
not low and bowing to the horizon
I stand bloodied and wide-eyed
in such ordinary darkness
I feel the people already pulling
their socks off to sleep as confetti collects
dust on a closet shelf
I could not bear this face, everything
under-the-sun damaged
abraded dull raped skin
always seen
a full moon
I only want part.
The clouds move like mercury
their spill is slow and dangerous
their bladed father hacks
the moon but she keeps scabbing
over
thick and scarred, continually thrusting the sky
away
I feel her impossible force, quietly
a new epidermis pushing
back against the ease of being swallowed
against submission to the established dark
against the craters of healing being mistaken
for ugliness, and the terror
of being seen—
I walk into town
at nautical dawn
spot the gibbous moon
and feel collagen bind
sloughed, naked
and renewing
and rectified.