Moonlighting

  by Leigh C. Grant

Monday:

And I noticed the small ecstasies, so easily overlooked;

little taps on the shoulder that happen right when the sun sets.

Red splashes into blue-black,

drawing in the day’s breath and exhaling in

light of moon.

Tuesday:

The moonlight makes our skin pale,

an eerie glow as though Mother Nature

is reminding us that life indoors

isn’t all that there is,

all that stands beside us at sunset.

Wednesday:

The moon is quite a curious thing.

He never winks, though his face peers

on us, and rests upon the backs of our shoulders

as we walk barefoot in the sand,

searching for moonshells that glow

like the whites of his eyes.

Thursday:

Driving. The moon played a trick on me today.

He came dressed in gaudy vermillion and blew sunset’s breath into his chest,

and followed me home from the grocery store.

It was quite disturbing, actually, he would not wane;

and I began to feel like he had sold out to

the sun and his more social ways.

Friday:

Our family dog has a habit of

accosting the moon from my parents’ back porch.

Somehow he seems displeased by the way the moon danced

with the wisps of cloud that passed by.

Saturday:

In parts of Latin America the moon is a jealous woman,

a pale-faced mistress of the night

who wants nothing more than to be a mother.

Twenty-eight days. Lunar cycle.

Tonight she reminded me to dance.

Sunday:

Full moon tonight.

I will again draw open the blinds and lay still

in cool sheets as the moonlight taps me on the shoulder,

nudging me in my dreams.