She’s pink tonight,
holding sway over ripening fruit
of a similar hue. She casts her light
with benevolence,
while under a leafy bower,
they sleep.
Morning will bring the tenders,
weeding the beds quietly,
diligently, as a roaring sun
arches his neck to the sky.

But tonight is her night.
I stand, naked, in the field,
mourning my breasts.
My nipples, reminding me
of those sleeping berries,
have long been excised
from this body,
now a pale cylinder,
a straw through which
all of the light can be absorbed.

I raise my arms up to you,
O strawberry moon. I do not cry.
I gaze at you in wonder
as Venus and Mars
peek over your shoulder
like curious children.
I want to be filled,
fulfilled, saturated
with your ruddy light.
Something like blood,
but sweeter.