Battiste

	Michele Battiste
When the Light Falters The moon is out of practice. A small broken stone. The closed window. The serrated edge of the neighboring roof confuses me. Blocking sky as if we are sewn inside the seam itself. The closed window creaks there is no wind and the serrated edge of the roof. I am not young enough to pretend the circumstances are better. The night is clammy. We breathe the same air and suffer from it. I crave saltwater as if that is all that is denied to me. Nothing swells or pulls toward the moon. A small broken stone. What moon cannot illuminate a perilous edge either at my feet or looming? Your moon. Your blind-spotted, petulant, hand-wringing moon.
About all the sex going on in my poems Or in other words, dismemberment: all these hips and throats and clawing, toenails poorly painted a gunshot shade of red. In other words, shame: the hidden blister, fever for a wrist pinned to white tile. If I were you, I’d keep my lips pressed tightly together. If I were you, I’d figure out my limits pretty damn quick.
Michele Battiste is the author of two poetry collections, Ink for an Odd Cartography (2009) and the forthcoming Uprising (2013), both from Black Lawrence Press. She has also written four chapbooks, the most recent of which is Lineage (Binge Press, 2012). Her poetry has recently appeared in The Awl, Anti-, and SpringGun among other journals. She lives in Boulder, CO where she’s procrastinating on a Ph.D. and raising money for school food reform.
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