Justice Marshall McComb, 82, did not contest his wife’s petition to be named conservator of his estate after she told the court her husband is “obsessed with the moon. He gets quite excited about it…. he enjoys it but it’s not a normal enjoyment of the moon.”
She makes me want to bang a hole right in my
ceiling,
or go out to the lake
and look quietly at her broken reflection in the dark water
or strip naked and run my tired feet through the late night dew, arms open and
laughing—
Oh, I’m certain it’s no
man up there—
she’s a Lady.
A Lady, certainly.
It’s obvious, isn’t it? In the way she moves,
steady and silent,
and the slight shadow around her yawning gray eyes
(she wears too much makeup, I think)
and her monthly rage—
the slow fury as she hides her face and turns away into the night
many ignore her absence, don’t even notice—
not me.
I wait for her, every night on the little balcony I made for us
watching for her to slowly turn back,
showing a soft cheekbone first,
then an eye, and then a
corner of her smile—
gentle and open again.
She is an old woman,
but I don’t mind.
I am caught completely
in the fever of her—
It’s all I can do to stop myself
from raising my arms with a
shout,
as she dusts her pale light across my naked legs, the tired skin
and my thin lips and too-dry tongue slowly awaken,
singing in a quiet, poorly accented tremor—
when the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie,
that’s amore.
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