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The Moon Whistles

The moon whistles to get your attention. She is brazen. She’s the kind who doesn’t mind
causing car crashes or making fishwives scald themselves with jealousy. She does a
striptease, dropping her light upon the sage leaves. She laughs at your bag of potatoes,
she laughs at the rubber bands on your shoes. She whispers Neruda in your left ear, then
sinks her teeth into the right. She likes the color of your blood. She aims her arrows at
your knuckles, ankles, belly. She likes the taste of crumpled overlords.

She cracks open crab shells with no tool but her jaws, and her smile is all damage. She is
sometimes fat, sometimes thin, but when she dreams of herself she has no body at all.
She swims like a bright widow in a black sea, dodging stinging stars like jellyfish, and
then she folds herself into nothing, dives down to the bottom. She has made herself a
widow a hundred thousand times over. It is told that she sheds tears for wolves, the only
ones who know her name, but you will never see these blue pearls.

The moon whistles to get your attention. She is vulgar. She’s the kind who doesn’t mind
luring you into a medical emergency or bruising the iron souls of saints. She walks like a
fox, dribbles her honey on your scarred carpet. She shames you for your wretched
spelling, she shames you for cutting your own hair. She licks your left thigh, then
ruptures the tendons in your right. She likes the sound of your sob. When you penetrate
her, she calls you by your sister’s name. She savors the terror of broke-beaked kings.

 
 
 

Anna Lea Jancewicz lives in Norfolk, Virginia, where she homeschools her children and haunts the public libraries. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming at Bartleby Snopes, The Citron Review, Jersey Devil Press Magazine, theNewerYork, and elsewhere. Yes, you CAN say Jancewicz: Yahnt-SEV-ich. More at: http://annajancewicz.wordpress.com/