MEG KAUTH
moon triptych
fire moon
all full moons rise around the time of sunset. there is no darkness then, but miles of immediate light. At moonrise, we are passing through an unusually long stretch of atmosphere, so the moon appears bigger, redder, as if on fire. this is "the moon illusion," — it appears ripe, and it creates a second "lunar day" where you and I know naked thinking is best. where clarity comes in the hood of night while others are sleeping and we are prowling, nothing between our fur and our stars.
painted moon
tonight, everything is illuminated — the thin shell around the world, the tide and the blood’s pulse, even the ring of moon around your eyes. tonight, the sound of your breathing is holding everything together — the roof over the eyes, sky above sky inside. tonight, your body sounds like a waning tide, like the sound of my nightgown pooling on the floor. tonight, your body sounds like a echo of the bell inside my chest.
wildflower moon
inside the box in your chest, a field of wildflowers grows steady. under the gaze of the moon, crabs walk across fallen petals, dip their heads in the direction of the sun, drift with the wind from your lungs. and in the hollow of your belly, a slow, still tide creates its own gravitational pull — lulls me close to your amber center. lulls us both to forget about the weather, the heat, the schedule for tomorrow. lulls the world to forget about us as we lie here shimmering and shining, slowly melting into the floor.