Past the fallen sun,
the magnolia are
black as rubber.
One drips
a cup of night into
my outstretched palm.
It tastes of petrichor, brass.
Makes of my mouth
a velvet horn.
I can talk with owls, and
the name of every star sits easy
beneath my tongue.
I can speak a window
of moonlight into
any lonesome room
where waking women
number the lost
as if quilting a map.
I can whisper
a silence that glows
like a lantern,
place that flame
in the moon’s
graying heart.
Walk a straight line
around a globe and you end
where you started.
Sitting still
inside this night,
I’ll remind you:
the moon only leaves
so it can come back
brighter.
Ann V. DeVilbiss has had work in BOAAT Journal, Crab Orchard Review, The Maine Review, Pangyrus, and elsewhere, with work forthcoming in Painted Bride Quarterly. Her chapbook, When the Wolves Stay Quiet, is available from dancing girl press. She lives and works in Louisville, Kentucky, and you can find more of her at anndevilbiss.com.