A Meal At The Moon's Table

She saw her across the park at night
sitting underneath a half dead pine;
her tongue was flicking out and licking
the slim finger of her panatella.

Her skirt was navy, it looked like
a chemist-girl's uniform and she had
hiked it to her hips; she curled her legs
and sat like the lotus.

Later, when she had the girl's skirt
scrunched under her hands
she thought about the shapes the boughs
of that roiling old tree
had made against that skin, all thrilled shadows -
the moon pushing in, in, as though it too
wanted to dig fingernails across the girl's back
and take some of that common beauty
as a last meal.