My man in the moon

Some may say moonlight is cold, but no, 

It’s more than hot, it’s scorching.

Through layers of cloud, 

His light trickles down, 

Making you sweat and stick to cotton sheets, 

Your cheeks inflame and hair go frizzy, 

As you wait—a perfect image of Queen Lizzy— 

A tea party laid out for your man in the moon. 

From his perch on your windowsill, 

He digs into cakes dripping with sticky honey, 

Slathering shortbread in thick, sweet jam, 

Rips apart dainty, square-cut sandwiches, 

And slowly peels the orange I offer with an outstretched arm. 

Full and round, white and glowing, 

He smooths your hair and gazes down at you, 

And you can’t help it but view, 

The curve of his throat as he gulps down your tea, 

The arch of an eyebrow, the bend of a knee, 

The juncture of a hip, subtle lines of bone. 

A tea party for you and you alone. 

But more recently he’s been meeting you in bars. 

Not cosy, nor romantic, 

But from the chilly balcony of a Newtown pub, 

Plaid shirt, rings on every finger but the one you want, Beer in hand, noncommittal, 

He throws you a dim glance every now and then, 

His face in half shadow, you try again 

to lay out that tea party, 

But you’re out of jam and the honey has congealed, You’ve burnt the scones, and not even shortbread can heal, the rift between you, 

Like an ocean, river, crevasse, 

Valley, dry plane, icy expanse, 

Garden of weeds, cracked earth, 

Concrete, gravelly asphalt, 

Like an interplanetary divide you would need a rocketship to bridge, And you don’t have a rocketship,

Only tea and cakes and biscuits, 

Hips and arms and lips that 

he will no longer kiss, no longer stroke, 

No longer slide his hands along your throat. 

He has a face like the clock in the hall 

Every time I look at him I know our time together is

ticking. You could say my tea’s gone cold. 

Written by M.M.N.