Under a Milk Moon
written by: Robin McNamara
I am taken with the sun,
unlike the cool of the moon –
how its beautiful orb of heat burns
away the dregs of a sandalwood night
with a ghosting lover.
Her pale mouth filled with milk,
she folds the unspoken words back inside
her throat.
The chameleon skin of want –
withering, in the heat.
White to black, leaving the ghosting
in shadows of darkness –
those tortured souls, begging for hearts
that don’t belong to them.
Smoke of your lies under a milk moon.
I took a Dustbowl road trip
to escape from your crucifix heart,
like Hunter S. Thompson in a Cadillac,
blowing the winds crazy.
Tearing clouds apart searching
for another universe of you.
With a neon smile,
broken angels play Handel’s Messiah
as death looks sideways – longing for me.
Liquid with anticipation.
I inhale the devil’s smoke.
All cares die in the cool desert air.
Listening to country – all whisky eyed
before the womb of desert –
all hot and decayed,
throws the stench of heat
from the beds of the departed.
Cigarettes and coffee and
ready for death.
Ashes scattered in desert of darkness.
But the story isn’t done yet.
spirits rattling in the casket.
“stop! I’m not ready to go yet!”
maybe just for one night –
the wild winds will return you.
- Under a Milk Moon - May 5, 2025
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