Moon Skin
I have known what it is
to be made ugly, blackened
by the imprint of you —
erased, imprisoned, embalmed.
Like the moon serene and whole
from afar,
but on closer look skin made
imperfect by the scars of her
craters, her rocks.
I soak myself in her lit up gaze,
drink the night sky in,
gulp the stars . . . always
thirsty for
more.
The constellations spill like
bloodwine from my glass,
imperceptibly hovering
out of
reach.
Like you as you walk away,
watching the moon from the
corner of your eye as if she’ll chase
you.
(the way I never
did)
or maybe, just maybe
as if she’ll guide you
on your way
home.
by Kimia Madani
Twitter: @kaymadz
Editor’s Note: Most first person poetry is too internalized for a reader to relate to the meaning very easily. However, this poem uses unexpected imagery and inventive line breaks to convey a sense of knowledge and purpose.
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