Late at night
she snuggles a small rectangle
moon, illuminating
her breast in the darkness
of Minneapolis night.
She hugs it close to the heart,
soaking up love
cancer, a vibration rattling
the ring of nipple.
Who would’ve thought
we’d spend more time
spooning small rectangle
moons than with each other?
Who would’ve thought
love could be electronic
messages sent back and forth
twenty thousand times?
Who would’ve thought
the Apple would fall
and land in cupid’s bow?
She gets up to pee
and takes the rectangle
moon with her. And,
sometimes, she wakes,
for no good reason,
in the middle of the night,
lights up the rectangle
moon, feeling a message
beckon, like the phantom limb
of an amputee.
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