The moon is showing

---

her naked butt-side as I walk home

asking, what is poetic about the moon

or back of something, the hung open

sky that is everything & nothing

like a moon or body, because

it's always poetry

when you say body or moon

& when you say butt

the line stops, music

split as though something inside

has broken, but the moon

broke long ago & we’ve forgotten.

So why is there a pleasure

in the wronging or the being

wronged? The toughness

in my great-grandmother's tongue

was like two moons once, avocado

& its seed, the body swallowing

generations to bear more

broken moons & when my love

grabs my ass so hard I think I feel

his hands reach the place where once

I carried life, there is a part of me

that looks up at the sky, mouth waxing,

body both the crater & the rock, body

both the birth & birthing, body because

when I say my   my                      my enough,

my body enough                    possession realigns,

when I say my body, my ba ba ba ba,

I hear my Babushkas

who told me your behind

is dirty told me poetry

is clean & shining & not

about the body, told me yours

is not a place that one should touch,

taught me touch

is everything & touch

is love & touch is what the moon

is made of, so when my love

touches my ass & I admit

I like it, the shame of it,

the dark side & the light, shame

the waxing reach, shame

the opening & everything

it carries, life

& shit & shit

inside of life &

when my son came out of me

they feared he had already taken

a shit inside, but the first thing to emerge

was not a scream, the first,

from his two, tiny showing

butt-sides was shining,

black coal, a stone,

a poem, a body,

a brazen new moon

out of the old.