A woman stands on the crescent of the moon.
She has no face.
Her hair runs down her breasts,
the dark blue night spreads behind her.
Not about to move, she is peaceful
standing with outstretched arms,
a purple cloth around her waist.
I barely speak
to the artist. I carry the painting home
and when I get
to my house it is quiet.
No one sees me walk up to
my door, open it and
close it quietly. I hang the painting
on the wall.
I never feel
the way others expect
me to feel. No one knows
how much I love her. No one
knows that I love her face
blank like that—
and how she stands so peacefully
on the crescent of the moon.
—from Rattle #21, Summer 2004