Drink Down the Moon by Barbara A. Meier

The moon is half drunk outside my apartment window, 
it matches my glass of wine. I salute you, my ghostly friend, 
as you spill your hazy halo upon the water. Tranquility 
is bruised upon your bottom, mine is bruised upon my brain

My mind is half drunk. I would ask for the forgetfulness
from this weight of gravity upon my brain, like the astronauts
who walked your surface, springing and leaping leaving
dusty boot prints, forever. Instead, you slide down the swells

as the last of the Cabernet slides down my throat. The glass
pitches downward, deep ruby drops bead the dense pile of carpet.
My iPhone flashes a hazardous beach warning of sneaker waves,
and my body flushes with the ebb and flow of hormones and alcohol.
I feel the earth pulling at my feet, anchoring me, while the moon
tugs my brain.  I stretch from the magnetic core to the lunar floor,
letting riptides and wave trains sway my brain 
and carry my body far from the shore.
Photo by GEORGE DESIPRIS on Pexels.com

About the Poet:

Barbara A Meier has spent the last four years living on the Southern Oregon Coast.  She retired from teaching kindergarten this summer and moved to Colorado to spend time with her mom.  Her first Micro Chapbook, “Wildfire LAL 6” came out this summer from Ghost City Press. “Getting Through Gold Beach” came out in November, 2019 from Writing Knights Press. She has been published in The Poeming Pigeon, TD; LR Catching Fire Anthology and The Fourth River.  

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