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The moon’s soft glow

Rests lightly on home,

Luminescent in her evanescence.

She murmurs words that

Never reach.

The safety of our ears.

Sweet laments

And sorrowful symphonies

Go unheard,

Lost in a great void,

They are consumed by

The overwhelming darkness,

That is night.

For even her radiant light

Cannot diffuse

The ice pick scars,

That scatter her face.

On days that her misery

Eclipses her beauty,

Her soothing song

Speaks of shame.

Rosy cheeks and rosy lips,

Tint faces like blank canvases with their amorous affair.

And when the graceful legs of ballerinas stretch,

The subtle hue hides their flesh.

Keeping their toes hidden in a mass of leather,

Sweet and fresh.

Sweet child, I murmur,

As she cries out to me,

Our memories begin to fade away quietly,

I grip the fingertips one last time,

Reminding myself that she is no longer mine.

And somewhere in the deepest depths of my heart,

The hole she once filled is now falling apart,

Will she remember you in the same light?

As loving and beautiful, or filled with spite?

Thumb the tears away from her eyes,

‘There, there’ reassure her, recite your lies.

Hold her closely, cradled in your arms.

Mommy will be back, but without her charm.

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Catch a dream in your pocket,

Then toss it towards the sky,

In hopes that you’ve given it meaning,

In hopes that it might fly.

If the dream comes hurling back,

Watch it shatter harshly,

Pick up the pieces it’s left behind,

Reconstruct it,

Partially.

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There is a place where the crocodiles come to play. A swampy marsh, hidden deep into the reaches of a forgotten imagination, a discarded memory that somehow still hung on. It’s a place where the reeds are tall enough to tickle your nose and the air is hot and heavy, almost thick enough to slice away with a butter knife. In hushed tones the females whisper, huddling around the stiff weeds. In fathomless voices they murmur and mumble, their tails coiled carefully around speckled white eggs. Here the crocodiles gather after each and every day. A place where they give into long chases around the pond, and snap playfully at each other’s winding, scaly tails. The males smile at each other, their faces twisting into crude grimaces, as each of them ostentatiously displays the rows upon rows of glistening teeth, neatly jammed tight into his mouth. Perfect little triangles, each meeting at a perfectly sharpened point, they stand ready, flickering from friendly to menacing, as their smiles melt into snarls.

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