Facetime with the Moon

You’ll miss it.

Most do
when the lights dim.
When the last chair is placed carefully 
on the waiting tabletop &
The pale pink neon open sign winks 
for the last time of the day.

The streets sigh.
Houses settle.
The sun burrows down 
to singe the horizon’s
edges & doors lock.
Laughter fades into 
quiet murmurs behind walls
that sound of  promises
reprieves, commands, requests
         prayers.

You’ll miss it.

This very look that sits on my face
in this hour of  folding & surrender
as I pause on  the edge my bed      preparing
to unadorn and open at the close of this day.

With bared shoulders, 
my neck relinquishing
this visible gold,
I lower my shields
in the halting light
of the moon leaning full
& rotund in my window
a questioning ivory calabash.

The moon never misses it,
this face I hold behind this  mask
full of bold vulnerabilities & blood.

This face, my answer each time
I meet this celestial body
waiting on my sill
asking me

Woman    how do you save
a piece of yourself,
for yourself at the end of  each day?

I don’t say a word.
I just let the 
gibbous light paint
my face in contour
& shadow & sigh.

The moon & I 
share the answer
in the phases of our face
From full, to wax, to wane.