you used to wear black
on nights you debated the moon,
owls keeping vigil on your breast,
arrogant dark folding around you.
“I only reflect the sun.”
cicadas chirping mindlessly
as if to say there is no way
you outmaneuver the need
of the night to swallow you
whole and spit you back
on the sandy shore where
black was the vibe
it's what you would wear
in the that land without light
till doves announced the morning.
I haven't seen you in black
for a while, you bought
a new car, shiny and white,
you seemed to change your demeanor.
you glowed like the city
across the bay when its
afternoon sun cut a
wrangling path across
expanses of literal,
figurative bright.
you became for a moment
that wholesome sheen.
but late last night you crept -
you didn't know I was watching -
darting along under the palms
until you found the miserly moon,
and asked her in ways
only you can contrive
if she remembered the dark.
“I only reflect the sun”,
that's all you get
for your beautiful words
and your slinky black dress
and the dark that swallows
the raven tide.
you only reflect the sun.
in your slinky black dress.
you only reflect the sun.