The deep blue of your coat,
where you lived those long nights
outside my apartment,
watching me undress before the window.
Only for you, darling, only for you.
You pick through my bones
like a vulture because the moon
is a radio jingle that I hum to
before that last ride,
you settling into my body, the
unmeasured span of my hips,
the Old Ones bringing blood to your lips,
to the inside of my thighs,
and you want, you want, until the moon
turns into so much ash.
As I turn and howl at the moon,
your name -- and Theirs -- in my voice,
the sudden depth of my mouth,
where men and beast have met their end,
and I sweep my sudden unbeing into the eye
that turns its heavy gaze for one moment,
and my soul rises into my throat
Crystal Vega-Huerta is a California State University, Long Beach graduate and lives in Southern California. She has previously been published in Poets & Artists and Aviary Review.
© 2014 Window Cat Press