Full Moon

Full Moon

I sit under

the Full Moon

like a passenger

silently dreaming

already in the afterlife.

And I'm going

to leave it all behind

in my head,

better than

tattooed

inside my heart.

Crying milk and wine,

these tears

have no salt left,

no dusty-road reminder

of sun bleached skin;

the scars of her memory.

As I let the anger sink away

like the dying shadows

of the twilight,

quietly culling 

the Oleander,

secretly stealing away

into the night

into the dark of it,

coming out at dawn

a Raven or an Owl.

There I will climb

the tree without her

and carve my name

in it's bark,

Stare at the full Moon.

And lick the blood from my wounds.