The Moon Dreams of Cecilia Dreaming of the Moon
The moon watches Cecilia support
a bowl of apples with her knees.
He watches her, how she shuffles a knife
between the small red stars and her fingers,
how she twists her wrists slowly,
slicing the cores.
He wants to move suddenly, to startle
her eyes from the motions of her hands in her lap,
to make her see him as he
kneels in the shadows.
He wants to gather oranges at night
into wicker baskets. To watch them burn
their colors as Cecilia’s hair burns its halo
over her neck, tucked behind her ears.
He wants her to speak Spanish,
to make her remember how they slept
together, her mouth whispering
nadamos en los ojos de dios,
how he cupped her small feet tenderly,
stroking them passive.
He wants to lie with his head between her knees,
have her fingers tug at his hair
instead of the bowl of fruit,
have her fingers tracing the tattoo crescent
cut into his thumb.
To make her need him.
He resigns himself to silence.
Slowly, she pulls another pale opal
from her lap, twirling it in the glare
of the morning sun,
every little motion a little death among her skirts,
under her hands.