Self Portrait as Luna
Annika Gangopadhyay
The clouds whisper my name at dusk—
I am born after the sun dies, out of silence.
The softness covers my shoulders, wraps itself around my body
until I am a shadow. Below me
phantoms burn in the dark
and men cut my hair into constellations. I still see the silver
sickles in my sleep,
caving inward,
a field of blades cold against my skin. Lovers curl into crescents
ablaze with emptiness on the grass,
and the world is full of waning lullabies,
black skies,
clouds falling at my feet like dust.
See how I cradle this burgeoning wasteland,
this cold inferno.
Milk pours out of my skin where the stars should have been,
and I gently rock the earth back and forth,
back and forth,
before the blades nd my throat,
before a soft red cuts through the sky,
before the constellations are ablaze,
Before I die at dawn.
