Circles and Cycles

Circles and Cycles

the moon beyond the window

keeping us in frame,

hemmed in, domestic

looks like the hoop of earring

I threw off while we were fighting.

but the real thing sits there,

on a coffee table strewn with litter

and the c-shaped marks of mugs

(never bothering with coasters)

reveal: even my cup stains know

that I am no Olympiad.

turned on its head,

that silver skyward crescent

looks just like the scrubbed-clean

skin beneath your  fingernails.

those fingernails, like slivered almonds—

but that gets me thinking

of how often they have lived

inside my mouth.

you never did like to be the one

to dirty up your hands.

the sinking in of hooks

remains a specialty.

in the background,

the window does well

to divvy up the moon:

mullioned sections top and bottom,

some for me and some for you.

but in real life now

you’ve gone and

turned it upside down,

it’s come shining out your mouth

though I never would have guessed

the moon could leer.

Allison Collins