Bonavista

Bonavista

I swear the moon was big that night

The night we drove to Bonavista

It was certainly bigger than the current issue

Bigger than whatever worry straddled you

And rode the night right off the wrong way

    Would be lying if I said I didn’t think of you riding me

Doesn’t matter, though

It was like a grapefruit

And shun right on through

Causing a fuss

Prompting us

To stick our tongues out to the deep sky’s dark leaf

And catch rain and claim it tasted sweet

And that’s when we shared the taste with each other,

I felt your language from the inside start to stutter

    No we fuccked but didn’t love

    Because that’s all we're capable of

Now do you remember?

The moon was like a pizza pie

And we were so hungry

Like dogs that were depraved

For months, in a motel bed

A platter was spread out for us

We ravaged, we chewed with

Our mouths open, we said it was

Hot but we like things hot, we

Did things to get each other off

That was the first night we said it

The dreaded ilu, the first I need you,

And it might have been the wine

Or it might have been the time

       (Right before you clawed my chest

    And I clenched the small of your back)  

Or maybe we were in desperate need of a lie

        (Or lay)

But those words were exchanged and I think one of us smiled

Now we're nowhere  in particular

Not talking about what we said that night

But instead arguing about the weather.

You’re insistent that there was nothing in the sky, no stars, no moon. ]You said it was like we were two

insects stuck in a pot overturned - the dark widened out from us,  it was black all around.

Well I believe the moon was huge that night, and I remember the sky was gutted and it bled spins of light

and I know I'm right because I remember pointing it out several times on the drive, but I also remember you just starring at your phone and saying "mhmmm"

If we’re insects then I’m a moth

At least I try to find some light

                                    Take my sight and I’ll talk to

You about the sunspots

And how they dance

Either way we've talked each other to sleep

Typical that our mouths kept goin as our eyes got weak

And maybe somewhere we snuck a prayer in

And maybe thats enough

Author's Note

Art, "The Gift of Christmas" - Peter Lewis