The Well

 At sixteen I believed the moonlight 
could change me if it would.

 I moved my head
on the pillow, even moved my bed
as the moon slowly
crossed the open lattice.


I wanted beauty, a dangerous
gleam of steel, my body thinner,
my pale face paler.

 I moonbathed
diligently, as others sunbathe.

But the moon's unsmiling stare
kept me awake.
 Mornings,
I was flushed and cross.


It was on dark nights of deep sleep
that I dreamed the most, sunk in the well,
and woke rested, and if not beautiful,
filled with some other power.

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