The Moon and the Sun

“Come into my parlour”, said the spider to the fly

For many years the moon bloomed
Rooted to festering alluvial soil
That sprouted slick lazy snakes.
The moon spent its time
Trying and crying for the sun
To caress her and kiss her
Trying always to lock lips
With those yellow teeth
Those yellow, yellow eyes.

When people saw the moon’s scars
They thought they saw an old man.
They saw it all right, it was him
Of course. But no one knew
That old, old man.

The sun rose everyday.
Every morning that began with him
Made the moon hide beneath the soil,
Curled in the labyrinthine folds
Of snakes- those thick, thick
Umbilical cords.

The sun terrified her.
Without the sun, she wouldn’t shine.

It was a humiliated moon that rose at night
Waxing and waning every month
Disappearing into nothingness.
No such thing happened with the sun.
It went on shining dutifully
Uncaring and unaware of its heat
Burning scars onto her face.

The moon hid its shame
Amongst creatures that crawled with
Their bellies in the dust.
The moon rearranged its scars
To make a funny old man.
And still when it looked at itself
It saw his imprint, a slap, on her face.