POETRY

Beneath the Half-Moon Sky

A prose poem

We slip, both of us into a kayak in the dark. It is astoundingly difficult to navigate hips and legs and knees to get ourselves settled. Our hysteria skips as rocks across the water and wakes the muscovies. They shift on the log, their tails a baffled waggle, almost in unison.

We shove and grunt our way onto the pond, the kayak finally adrift in deep wobbles until we find our rhythm, two sailing spirits casting off, navigating the leaf-strewn face of a pond lit only by the half-moon. She glares her half-smile in the night sky. My arms drift around your neck. Something crawls across my bare foot.

We fall silent as heartbeats. We are all arms and paddle, dark fingers of water trailing from the end, lacing in my hair. Our breathing falls in sync. A chorus of frogs rises and falls in throaty crescendos and decrescendos. The half-moon follows us dutifully. We impersonate bullfrogs.

Is it ok if I call you babe? I ask. Babe is ok, you say.

On the far bank, two lit discs hover deep in shadow. We are intrigued. The half-moon is of no help, stilling herself — the moon is right behind you — and we approach quietly, the paddle settled across your knees. Oh, it’s a black cat, we decide. The cat does not move.

We explore the dark side of the pond next. We circumnavigate deep knobby bald cypress trees as our heartbeats thrum a syncopated rhythm. Heartbeats seem to know when you’ve known each other for lifetimes.

Maybe you met him in a previous life, says De, taking a deep sip of her Long Island Iced Tea. I am remembering, I know this, but the thoughts drift into me as I feel your pulse quicken against my chest. We race toward the bank.

It takes a few tries to get the kayak to nose up onto the bank and more than that to get ourselves out and up the incline, both our hands entwined. You pluck me from the belly of the kayak and we embrace the bank with our bare feet. We are wetted, our clothes clinging to us. We smell like night. We are amused, picking our way across the damp grasses, finishing each other’s thoughts.

The pond settles quickly. Muscovies simmer down and resume their sleep. The frog chorus resumes its bulbous chatter. The half-moon tails us as a wake, winking between the dense canopy of oak.

I have never felt more safe as I do here in the dark, barefoot and soaked, with you, brushing my arm with an apology. This newness feels like oldness and the night does not explain this to me. The half-moon does not answer me as to why. It does not matter — I haven’t laughed this hard in ages.

We gather our shoes and marvel aloud at our silliness. We change into dry clothing in two separate rooms. This bashfulness feels disingenuous for two spirits afloat on the same pond for centuries.

We take Josie for a walk around the backside of my apartment complex so I can see the two tall long-leaf pines. They are echoes of stillness in the sky. They rustle in the night, a soft stirring whisper that speaks to me deeply. I visit them often, I tell you, a shadow passing across my face as I consider them.

How long can I remain here? Before the money is gone? I can’t push away the worries. You catch them like fireflies. Your home is my home, you say. This tenderness touches me. Your arms drape around me, new and old, the same.

We are docked on the couch, two ships weathered but of strong form. I think about where we’ve both been to end up here in this same space and time, on these same waters, beneath this same moon, on this nondescript couch in my apartment that smells of bamboo and vanilla.

You sigh your way to sleep for a moment, then take your leave. After all, you are gentlemanly. It is a forced departure neither of us wants. A kiss waits upon our lips, then grows into feathers and slips beneath our skins.

There’s a bird that nests inside you Sleeping underneath your skin When you open up your wings to speak I wish you’d let me in

Nestled in bed that night my soul sighs in memory and drifts itself to sleep. Anticipation is such a delirious dream.

Author’s note:

The following passage quoted in this poem is from a Counting Crows song called A Murder of One.

There’s a bird that nests inside you Sleeping underneath your skin When you open up your wings to speak I wish you’d let me in — Counting Crows, A Murder of One

Thank you for reading. Here are some other selections you may enjoy:

Christina M. Ward is a freelance writer in cannabis, wellness, and clean beauty. Christina’s professional work has been featured in Today’s Health Science, LA Weekly, Village Voice, Men’s Health, and OK! Magazine, among others.

Christina also writes on personal journey, productivity, and relationship topics for Medium publications like this one. If you want to read more of her work on Medium use this join link for unlimited access. A portion of your small monthly dues will go to support the work of the writers and poets that you read.

Books: Amazon. Newsletter: Fiddleheads & Floss Newsletter.