The shine of the moon 

kisses my mouth,

dissolves and brings a burn to melt

my tongue, my bite, my voice, my hunger

and midnight swallows me

as a ghost snores beneath my blanket.

The shine of the moon 

carries an ocean to my gullet

and lifts the tide to launder and sink

my vigor.

Waves of midnight crash

and cross the shoreline.

Yet we are still mid-murk

and I am still in midnight’s girth

and the shine of the moon

heeds your stygian plunder

and indicts your planned consumption.

You become a wolf in moonlight.

You become hungry howl.

You become the teeth of voice.

I become prey.

I become broken whimper.

I become undressed fossil.

My ribs become some 

plaything between your teeth.

My flesh becomes 

maimed hunt.

My body becomes 

hollow feast.

My resistance becomes 

game of fetch.

You pull blood from my center,

pull decision from my opposition,

pull my shirt until it rips,

pull my body until tires,

pull the tide back to push.

Your fecal claws— sharp and sober—

anchor my retreat— soft and drunk

Your fecal claws

are clasw I will feel every time

someone reaches for me.

Every pursuit, every midnight,

every lover I have loved since you

has looked like a wolf at least once.

Damn you

for turning lovers into wolves,

turning love into bite,

turning touch into stain,

turning moonlight to menace,

turning me to product of pillage.

You bury my bones

and I become a fossil,

this bed becomes a grave,

and the shine of the moon becomes

a eulogy.

You blame it on the moonshine.

Yet your kiss is dry

while my mouth is drowned.

Your bite is sober

while my voice is swallowed.

Your will is free and malicious

while my choice is stolen.

Waves of midnight cross this shoreline to

a tombstone memory

written in sand

at the edge of dirty fingertips.

But still not enough

to wash away the wounds,

not enough to flood the grief,

not enough to drown the memory.

You blame it on the moonshine.

Don’t tell me the moon confuses you.

Even the ocean knows when to stop.

-Iris