By Rachael Ikins
Sub-zero.
Nose-hair-freezing cold
the night the last full moon
of the year screamed.
No clouds, nothing to soak up
that silver roar.
I went out with the dogs,
half-naked, transfixed I stared that moon in the eye.
I shivered: moon-burn, moon-burn.
I pushed my sleeves up, dropped my pants, yanked my hat off.
Chrysalis that emerges only under full-moon circumstances,
I let that broadcast power overcome me.
Later, (moon-blind), I chase sleep.
Moon burns through curtains’ caul, claws past glass and skin,
bone and blood, hums in my chest
where a small heart caged in white rib, skips.
Struggles to free itself.
For what is a heart?
Throbbing creature,
a star, singing
for home.
Rachael Ikins is a multiple Pushcart nominee, 2018 Independent Book Award winner, and 2019 Vinnie Ream & Faulkner poetry finalist. She is author and illustrator of 9 books, in multiple genres, available on the publishers’ websites. She currently works as Associate Editor at Clare Songbirds Publishing House. Follow her on Facebook (RachaelIkinsPoetryandBooks), Twitter (@nestl493), and Instagram (@poetreeinmoshun). See more of her work in the Ink Sac here and here.
