most mad and moonly

she’s a little crazy, right? half,

at least. cloaking herself in

inky star-spilled darkness,

unmasking her many moods;

this waxing and waning at whim

crescent grimace gloating,

gibbous eye hypnotizing

tumbled time and tide

fat and full and freckled

face beckoning, reckoning

you are but earthbound, and

she, a beacon of the night

who can neither shed nor

bear her own exquisite light.

Demarcation

Draw a line in the sand.

Don’t cross it. Color inside

only, and only in the most

muted of tones. Show ID.

Please keep all limbs and

appendages inside the

vehicle. Control all spon

-taneous laughter. A proper

level of decorum must be

maintained at all times. When

you’ve had it up to here, secure

the perimeter and batten down

a hatch or two, paying particular

attention to not getting finger

-prints on glass ceiling.

Don’t grasp at first or last

straws, or allow them anywhere near

that camel over there. Use sunscreen.

Tilde

If we unscroll this thing, give it syllable

and song, taste it along our torn tongues,

our dialect is horses, hooves pounding

forward, manes flinging salt water to the

waiting wind. Our floating hope is a tiny

bird’s crest, conjugated in cinnamon and

sage, aged carefully, held with ginger hand.

If we stand, on this, one last promise, we

are archers heading into battle, quivers of

anticipation and rage and unsheathed

joy. If we toy with noble wisdom, crack its

solid amber shell, pronounce it loud and

well, this cant, with all its quiet meditation

and clasped conjugations and implied con

-jectures, this language of our hearts might

live and breathe and brave this aged place.

by De Jackson

De Jackson is a poet, a parent and a Pro Crastinator (not necessarily in that order) whose heart beats best when accompanied by inky fingers and salty, sea-soaked toes. Some of her work has has appeared, or is forthcoming, in Sprout, Red River Review, Bolts of Silk and Indigo Mosaic.