The moon

tiptoed like a fleet of silken fairies

across a busty chorus of cloud,

across the pretty lawn, doused in nightdew

and through a lattice of gum leaves

to find

only his image upon my little window.

The moon

was not in the mood

for reflection.

He swelled up,

his silk turned to satin

his chariot to ice

and his pretty serenade

cut short at the neck.

The moon

pushed through the curtains,

pulled at my blankets,

grabbed me by my flannel pajamas

and pressed his thumb against my throat.

He was

full of hard muscle

and indigo with rage.

He stared me dead in the face.

He breathed ice upon my puckering skin.

He trailed his long fingers,

flesh-less and filed,

across my pillowy cheek,

and plucked

the petals

off my dream.

 

The moon

twisted my hair.

He pulled at my lashes

and yanked back the sheets of my cocoon.

To douse me

with a chill wave

of his bleak grace.

He forced his ancient cold

against my sleepy nest.

he regarded my gooey body,

dripping with sleepy lala,

and said,

 

in the voice of Freud,

in the colour blue

in no uncertain terms

               Write!

               Or I will send you a monster!