Night Walk

Kay-Ann Henry

On nights, the moon is much too lovely
to ignore and my room becomes a 
cocoon that stuffs and suffocates, 
I take a walk.
I’m looking for the lady whose skin 
turns blue in the moonlight. 
After two croaks, I see her 
in all her antediluvian glory.
Suede Clarks, Anita Baker crooning
from the record player,
a devoted night routine to the moon.
She has me transfixed in space, 
time and retrograde.
My whole body is humming 
whatever tune that’s so wonderfully 
placed around her lips. 
Oh, how I envy that song. 
I, too, long to be a thing in her mouth.

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