Waking the Moon

I have seen the moon gone galloping

for Maddie McMahon

Waking the Moon

I've seen the moon go wandering, larking through the apple orchards, swilling up hard cider, sneaking cooling pies from windowsills. I've seen the moon stick out her fat tongue, her face full, not of cheese, but mounds of sweetest cream and candied nuts. I’ve seen the moon licking her own sweet face. I’ve seen the moon doing up her hair, puckering her lips rose red and glossy. I’ve watched her dress to the nines and strut out along the boulevards sashaying and swaying her sassy sass sass. I’ve seen the moon stop, lean against a lamppost, and wink at me, throw down kisses to me. I've seen the moon dance surreptitiously and naked against the stars, when no one is looking I’ve seen her drunk on atmosphere running her hands the length of the blue sky, running her hands round and round her ribald, debauchous body, bucking and rearing, I have seen the moon gone galloping. I've seen her pregnant as anything, waxing so yellow, so full-too-bursting, blood red against a black sky, birthing a litter of baby moons, suckling them at such ponderous breasts, such soft and robust mamasome love. I've seen the moon toss her little boomers into the air then watched her suckle the postnatal stars, soak the bluing into their nappies, breakfast them, burp them, and send them packing across the galaxy. I've seen the moon shiversome and lonely, watched while she pulls her night cap down over her face. And while she lies dreaming cold silent and blue, I reach up and lift her from her perch, pull her down and cuddle her coldness, stroke the rough stone of her belly, place my hand atop her heavy heart, and wake her up.