The first time I did it for money
I crouched in a cave of filthy sheets
& bit the back of my hand to keep from crying.
The moon has teeth.
I was marked at birth: a bad apple.
No doors or windows so secure
my rot couldn’t spread,
no evil I didn’t wish
on the ones who loved me,
the ones who tried to help me with such
immaculate gloves & methods.
Even the shadow of my little toe
The moon’s hair is caked with her own blood.
Her fingernails are ragged
because she gnaws them like an animal.
You whom I torment are my tool.
When you tie me up I can escape.
When you rape me you reap the whirlwind
whose voice is the banshee mob.
The moon is barren but never lonely.
The scars on her face are a codex
limning her many contacts with aliens
whose purposes surpass all understanding.