What I recall from that autumn
between girlhood and womanhood:
the moon in the grey-flannel sky.

Not the harvest moon—swollen belly
with its apricot tinge of ripeness.
Not the blood moon either
though blood would come.

But the waxing crescent, its long swayback,
its lazy loins nearly reaching me,
the languid swath of its light intent
on touching my untouched body.

The moon as sky bridge,
ineludible, before me.