Crouched at the edge of a blackened shoreline,
the moon high overhead— tonight she taunts me.
I cringe at the thought of her whirligig moods,
her stinging, insulting words laying stripes
down my back, one for each syllable of her name.
I have been warned, have I not?
"The moon is a harsh mistress, boy."
says Mr. Heinlein.
He doesn't understand.
No one does.
She is mine. Mine to keep.
Mine to treasure.
Mine to kneel to.
As I must.
To know the highs— of her husky voice,
her passionate perusals, the velveted dome of her breasts—
is also to know the lows of her scorn,
her venom, and her brutal reprisals.
I have been warned, have I not?
And he says again
"The moon is a harsh mistress, boy."
without imagining how far
from the truth he is.
The heat of her back radiates up between my cold
fingers as I push her loosened blouse
over her shoulders. For now
she is yielding
and soft
and hungry for my touch.
But when she is full of me and the night sky
is dark once again, and quiet...
"The moon is a harsh— "
I know! I scream,
and no one hears me—
"—mistress, boy!"
Why can't he see the truth? Why can't anyone see it?
Above me, the silvery crescent
waxes with each night's passion,
as I bask in delirium with my lover—
my jeweled rainforest woman—
sated with madness
and contentment,
and the thrill of worship.
Have I not been warned?
"Harsh—"
Shut up, please.
"--mistress, boy."
Then the nights grow brighter and I feel
her blood stir. My heart quickens
to the danger, my legs weaken,
my strength dissipates with fear--
Her contempt will plow furrows
through the fertile soils
of my self-loathing.
I have been warned.
But I love her! I need her-!
I cannot breathe,
my eyes bulge with pain—
she is full, tonight
of rage and venom. I see my part
in this picture, and vow
my escape, knowing all the while
I am a liar. I am hers, ruled
by her tidal forces, enslaved
by her changing demands.
I have been warned, have I not?
"The moon is a harsh mistress, boy..."
So I crouch at the edge of the lake of death
swearing once more I will escape.
I am a liar.
...." says Mr. Heinlein.
He doesn't understand.
She is my death and resurrection;
and I am not a boy.
©LJ Grandstaff January 2001