Full-Length Portrait of the Moon

She could be any woman at all, caught off-guard on-guard. With her hands stroking or strangling and maybe with her intentions half-interred. But she is as she is. Her gaze is always filing away at its cord. And what she's really after is you to love her. She forgets who she is. She could be so small she almost has no smell. She feels like anyone at all. When you walk up to her, she keeps quite still, but what she answers to is never loud enough to know. Eaten away by outwardness, her eyes are empty. They could be watching you or not. They work indifferently, like lit-up glass and if you ask why she won't speak, why should she? When what she really wants is silence. You know what women are like: Kay, Moira, Sandra. They move through a dark room, peering round under the hoods of their names. Alcestis, Clytemnestra. She could be either of those. She scarcely knows. She goes on thinking something just over your shoulder. This could be the last night before you lose her. But what's the use of saying one thing or another. When what she's really after is you to love her.