They say every woman is a piece of the moon,
but I want the sun.
Dear Apollo, explain to me why you gave up
clear mornings for the shadowy future.
And Iíll make you wish you hadnít burned a time before.
Because heís still sleeping, turned towards the window,
the thick blinds cracking with sunlight in the early dawn.
The navy sheets his royal dress, the rays his glory crown.
I wake up next to a god on Sunday morning,
hands still dirty from the night before.
But when I sleep, I dream of rhyming big words
Building them on top of each other, letting it touch the sky.
I rub up against them once in awhile to test their strength,
To see if they feel soft against my forehead.
And then I lose whatever Iíve found.
He says the forgetting defines me.
Once, in another life, I was a girl in Montana.
My face wasnít smooth and I carried a knife
strapped to my boot. I branded horses with a reverse K,
and carved hearts into bedposts.
I guess I felt a need to prepare for the real thing.
When I woke in the morning it was next to me.