Moon

Some nights the moon is so full, its intrusion complete and I pull the drapes, slowly so the dust doesn’t rise and pin them together at the center, like wrapping up a day. Just to block out the unnatural pulsing. I expect in the small glance I allow myself, to see giant moths, batting at the light, singeing wings and great dramatic falls of something so light it’s a toss-up as to whether that dead moth will ever hit earth. Maybe its singed body, in that agonizingly slow decent will heal itself and fly up again to swat at the heat and glow of that moon. Sometimes I envision a murder of crows perfectly backlit, their pointed beaks headed south, their wings with no effort at all, no movement of bird-parts soaring toward a distant mountain. It’s as if looking at scenery moving behind a still-life of birds.

I cannot, on these nights close the curtains quickly enough, my heart pounding the sound track with its erratic thumping, a base drum out of whack until I fear it just may not go on. I stay away from the glow of the moon that slices through the middle section of curtain. A bright stripe like a laser cutting through and the hammer of my heart weakening and I wonder if I’ll have enough life left at the end, as the moon, the absurdly dominant round ball thing of it, sinks beyond the hills.

I’m startled sitting here in the dark, thinking maybe in the morning the moon will rise again and again, wondering if I’m seeing through blindness at something so blond and pale and strong that I mistake it and really after all this I’m looking directly into the sun.

Cooper Gallegos