PIEL DE MIEL

waning crescent

          shatter the moon,
                     and
ask why your wings are made of paperweights, delicate dust gnashing behind your teeth, in need of a satin dusk curtaining the craters of your skin from between your eyes, and your eyelids gush sweet silk for a more lasting summer solstice, your wings desire to crack at the pressure of the sun's hands around their veins (made of glass) (not made to last), slivers of silver cascading around bat-bitten ribs, moonlight carving residual rituals onto your mouth, there is no more solstice, i cried day and never-ending night, you don't need the sun