Every Moon A Woman

It’s that I don’t know where to go from here,
or how to uncrack brick.
The fire pit is cold and dark,
the door creaks with every visitor.

What does it mean to be alone?
When do we wake up from longing?

I hate the chocolate,
and the soup,
and the noodles,
and the quiet fight for
something unnameable.

I am small.
Again.
Again.
Again.

Tell me how we got here,
how I fell out the window
all those years ago,
and why you ran when
I was found out.

It gets better.
Everyone is always saying that.
Even the dying.

There is a light
somewhere, climbing
over the hip of a woman
heavy like fruit
on a branch.

Scratch through the walls
if you have to.
Run until your teeth hurt.
We’ve got forever
to repeat the same mistakes.

A window in your bedroom
looks out on death.
You always thought silence
was beautiful.

I am no lover.

Forgetting comes back
with every full moon,
and sometimes the light
lasts all night.

Do not make me leave.

I wonder when the tattered flags
will dissolve,
when the prayers of the hopeful
will be let go of.

One light after another
until the morning and
woman are the same.

Easy as sleep is forgetting.
Easy as sleep is alone.

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About amyleighcutler

Writer, dancer, vagabond extraordinaire
This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to Every Moon A Woman

  1. Amar says:

    Amy,
    I enjoy the following verses: “The fire pit is cold and dark,/ the door creaks with every visitor. / What does it mean to be alone?/ When do we wake up from longing? “. They are powerful verses because they subtly and poetically evoke loneliness and longing, absence and desire. Besides, the sadness of their tone is contrasted by the stoic detachment of the poetic voice.
    There is also much delight in reading the seventh stanza: “There is a light / somewhere, climbing / over the hip of a woman”. Yes, indeed, there is much light and warmth in reaching out to the bosom of a woman, on condition to be true in our loving embrace.
    However, I find that your your emotion is exposed too much in the fifth stanza. May I remind you, here, of T. S. Eliot, for whom the “great artist” is s/he whose “heart […] suffers and [… whose]mind […] creates”?
    Hope you will find my tentative comment useful, and I assure you that it’s always much pleasure reading you
    Amar

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