Glass Poetry Press

Volume One Issue Three

Pamela Coren

Phases of the Moon

First it was one of those tired evenings, and she sorted the sky in silence, muzzled by the day's rain belt coiled slick along the rim. All space jumped and twitched to the electric irritation of astronauts. She fretted at herself in her foxy mirror, finally sat it out, careless and cool in frumpish yellow gauze. Next night she expanded, slipped into a shiny starred lycra sky, lifted silver wings hooked to her sleeves and floated tra-la round space like a drunken friend. Rice cake clouds lined up: it was all star dance night, cosmic karaoke. No gloom Bloomsbury rocks in her pockets, a time lord blazing her change, higher than a kite. The third night was a surprise: and two . . .and three: stepping backward she danced with Mars, lost behind a bulk of dust, smiling over his shoulder. We were fogged like wallflowers. Next morning she lay late, brilliant above schoolchildren. When first she calls she makes you ache, screaming at the barriers for the slim boys passing.