The Complete Moon
How she hides, a torch behind trees, mega watt
dazzling, golden. Come out soon from peek-a-boo?
I’ll chase you!
Shall we howl? Go outside in the black night
and full-blown wail to the lunar audience,
throw arms back, go for it?
Let’s watch her from the window, behind glass
firstly, and then open the straight jacket.
The only distance between us should be air.
Oh, I know there’s miles and miles of atmosphere
and tonnes of space but there’s something about
the full moon’s beams falling on skin,
something about a skyful of stars, a commune,
an acknowledgement of the unspoken,
a satisfaction and a desire.
Do you think when we die, we’ll go to such a heavenly place,
that when we disintegrate to dust, we’ll be at peace?
We’ll be elemental and not art,
not walking around human being creations.
Wouldn’t it be better to be the paint, the notes, the clay
and not some bumbling divinity?
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Orla Fay would be pleased to hear them.