The moon is full or maybe that’s my eyes
welling up like they do, when the lump in
my throat can’t hold its place anymore
and it crumbles out from the belly of god.
So loud, all the wolves come to my feet
and call me home. I say,
“Go away. You are lost, follow the moon
until you hear the howl.”
But they sit there, fixed on my eyes.
Focused steady on the song ripping from
my throat, and I scream,
“There’s no goddamn music anyway!”
There never was. It was me singing from
the music in my head. Falling, but calling
it a dance. I do that sometimes to forget
the dance is just me alone, trying to make
sense of this war inside, but there is no
easy answer for the way my fingers love
to touch the shine of the trigger.