The porch is cold.
I have stolen my blanket from indoors
to perch in the dirty armchair outdoors,
and I watch the silver moon,
which I thought would be a silver dollar
but instead resembles a lentil.
Lentille means lens, you know,
and something that changes your view
is never mediocre.
This day happens once in thirty years.
On this day, the moon winnows itself down
to a nubbin, light glazing only the rim of the saucer,
the milk mustache on the man’s face.
This day is rare,
and I am scared of rare things.
I am not scared of the patterns we fall into
comfortably, the pattern of your examination
of the stars on my bedsheets,
our lack of motivation, inspiration, aspiration.
You are so much older than me.
You are easy
to climb into, to hide inside.
There has only been one time (of which
I am ashamed. There, I said it)
where I was not the most inexperienced.
We explored caverns together
and emerged, shaking and unshaken,
her skin glancing lighter than even mine,
her red hair streaming across my shoulders.
I was taught that it was wrong
to be with someone who didn’t yet know better
than to be with me.
I was taught that to take a first kiss
was to break a bound that could never be un-crossed.
So let’s remember, if we do cross,
let’s remember the moon’s white petri dish
with its drop of red that spreads over the surface, suddenly.
It has fallen off the end of some eye dropper,