By Frances Tate

You are moon to my tide,
You pull away – I ebb and flood.
Rare blue moons, I keep up
with your wax and wane.
Hunting through clouds to see
which bloodied or
honeyed face you wear-
which scars and valleys show.
But the black moon, the dark sky
reveal nothing.
I’m not ready to stop trying.
Stop hoping that,
of all the courses run,
one will be your resistance.
I can’t explain why it matters,
what it is about you
I can’t relinquish-
even though you’ve never
been mine to lose or hand back.
I never question my lunacy.

           
Frances Tates writes because, “the words made me.”