Roused by the unexpected smell
of cordite, I open my eyes, and there
peeping at me around the white duvet,
is 81 pentillion
tons of oxygen,
silicon and regolith.
Her craters contoured pink
in the glow of the bedside lamp.
Beneath us, the bedframe creaks.
I reach a flattened palm
towards her, as if she was a
mare I didn’t know,
ridden too far and coated
in thick layers of soft dust.
I brush her between my finger
tips until she draws blood.
‘This is my dark side,’ she whispers.
I wrap my arms around a fraction of her girth,
abandon myself in her gravity,
taste metallic charcoal on my tongue.
Moon makes me thirsty.
‘Let me rest awhile,’ she murmurs,
‘I travel 55 thousand miles each day.’
As she turns away, her shadow blocks the light.
In the morning, a cavity
in the mattress and the floorboards broken,
sheets smudged black with dust,
a scattering of meteorites on the floor.
And the bitter taste
of moon in my