Unlike the moon, I can’t change.
His crackle that creams the dark
is ageless, his disposition sort of staining, to some,
he serpentines, constantly breathing like the sea.
I don’t want to hear his old song
that grows to a piercing shriek
but I can’t let him go.
Drier than an empty womb,
I lay beneath him, the living fossil,
entranced by his chalk dance,
wishing he’d bleach my yellowness white.
He unhatches, stripping from his shell
and opening like a frosted bud.
He thought I was wasting my beauty,
so he took it entirely. His arsenic face haunts me,
his ancient teeth gaping at me in mirrors and lakes
and I let him infect my sight
knowing that I can and will, no must, let him go.
Copyright © Daniel Dixon