split moon months

we made one moon on our back,
different pieces, slices of half-moon months.
then full bridal moons for parties,
different shades for cops.
the street people hang on them
and water their eyes,
milky-moon iris.
oh please, the older man said,
smoke the moon like dope,
hold the darling candle closer,
and he light his whole head in soft flame.
no moon of mine, the other heap responded,
comes close to my mouth,
way low to my toes and opens like a table,
a smart coffin for bats and evil practices.
it's mostly a game, the heap admitted,
something i play to feel closer to
my old man moon,
my push-apart dad.
a tall girl who deserves it, some say,
put moon in a drink,
in her dark clothes, her smooth skin.
i get them this way, she coddles her macho moon,
and they forget why they came, she says,
stay on to look for it again.
she knows they actually don't,
says it just to hear it with her own full moon mouth.