Lunar
by Meg Yardley
I like the pockmarked skin of your face,
the story of past collisions.
I like the sweet slice of darkness
when you half-turn away,
and I like when you turn back,
your crescent smile spilling out silver.
I admit I have not brought enough
oxygen. I fear my boots may leave damage behind,
prints that cannot be swept away.
Still, being with you is buoyant:
springing from step to step
across the softness of your dust,
across the hardness of your ridges.
I admit sometimes I lose contact
with mission control. My helmet
is hermetic, a world of secrets, full
of the echo in your silence:
how much it has to say.
Behind your mask of night sky,
shadow blot of safety,
give me enough distance
to desire, enough room
to breathe ragged,
enough shine to be sure.
the story of past collisions.
I like the sweet slice of darkness
when you half-turn away,
and I like when you turn back,
your crescent smile spilling out silver.
I admit I have not brought enough
oxygen. I fear my boots may leave damage behind,
prints that cannot be swept away.
Still, being with you is buoyant:
springing from step to step
across the softness of your dust,
across the hardness of your ridges.
I admit sometimes I lose contact
with mission control. My helmet
is hermetic, a world of secrets, full
of the echo in your silence:
how much it has to say.
Behind your mask of night sky,
shadow blot of safety,
give me enough distance
to desire, enough room
to breathe ragged,
enough shine to be sure.
Meg Yardley lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. Her poetry and short fiction have recently appeared or are forthcoming in publications including Gulf Coast, Salamander, SWWIM, Cagibi, and the Women’s Review of Books.