Making Out with the Moon

I don’t know if it was a man or a woman,
that full moon I landed on

when I came over the hill on the way home.
There was the Moon, blocking the road,

a great luminous, succulent babe, 
weary of all the voyeurism. 

I was not at all surprised.
We’d been eyeing each other a long time,

ever since I was five and my father 
helped me see the moonface.

Right away, it was clear the Moon 
would have its way with me.

You know how the fat and the skinny
often couple?

You know how even mismatched people
fit when they lie down?

And oh, what a kisser.
Imagine ... your whole body kissed at once

by such voluptuousness, ripe from all the revolutions.
Yes. The Moon has a tongue.

So when we parted—spent, smiling—
the Moon, face pink with lipstick,

rose sleepily, reluctantly, 
as a lover will, heading home through the dark.

I’ll miss you, said the Moon.
Goodnight, I said,
just as I’d always wanted to, in person.
Goodnight, Moon.