Poetry

Last night a dream, 
died in infancy, when you 
were drawing a circle 
of pain in rainbows. 
 
The hurt of blind alleys, 
and the rebounding image 
of burnt-out candles in night. 
The full moon will only enhance─ 
 
the burns. I do not want to talk 
about the divine will of making 
a baby, out of willing or unwilling 
surrender. Lines are blurred. 
 
You want to ask the moon─ 
Are you convinced, it was not 
a rape? A butterfly is snuffed out 
in your palm, you do not know.