Glutton, your mom warns. Good girls do not dare
to breathe or move or listen when the moon
calls out. Each night you kneel and beg in prayer,
luna-lune, for toe-curling fucks: typhoon
in strength, cosmic in scope, untold power
in your clit. You kneel by your dark window,
foreplay, leaning into the witching hour.
Foreplay as in what moons discard: their glow
fit to be worn by unicorn-tamers.
Don’t call this smut, call it faith: that someone
somewhere craves you as much as the moon craves
you. Faith that one day soon all your lovers
will come home. If that makes you a glutton,
so be it. It’s your faith that keeps you brave.