BB Grey–musings

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I thought how you thought of yourself as the moon—

brilliantly white light,

a dot of hope in eternal black.

But even your light wasn’t yours.

Reflection.

And the howling

below—that was real.

Lobo, me.

Smooth surface.

You could trick yourself

into seeing a smile there.

But the truth:

scars skip the surface,

sink steeply—pieces of mountains

that, without an atmosphere,

are allowed to crash into you.

No choice.

And I did.

But spinning,

the marking of time,

rotations,

smooth scars.

Cover them.

Or, from afar, make smiles.

Too hard to hide,

so we hide the scars

behind a face

and call it meant to be.

And we say

you

are the better for it.

But the moon

should be orange or red,

like the sun of Stephen Crane—

and hang,

a verdict already passed.

A blood wafer:

communion—body, blood,

death and redemption in one.

The real light,

not against the contrast of night,

but struggling

to separate itself from its own sky.

A difference

harder to make

when it’s just there

and you can’t stare

for fear of going blind.

So you work,

head bent,

and take the heat.

Sweat. Repent.

Under the anvil

of the light.