The Sleepless Sun [https://media.discordapp.net/attachments/1081627664932159620/1148820475057815553/anti_pirate_graphic_-_walking_in_sky_-_poetry_vol_1_-_white.png]

An Inuit Tale

The moon is a mother to no woman.

It is the hiding of an accused man,

forever rolling,

a blur without grace.

The moon's sister was

forced to become the sun,

the glow on his shifting face.

His elusive turning pace is revealed

by her all-inclusive stare.

He follows her always.

Persistent,

slow,

he is distant.

His love was water tapping in an empty, metal sink.

His lust for her is

rain dripping into a deep, two-handled pan.

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Before she was fire and light,

she lived her nights without the use of lamps.

She moved perfectly in the dark.

Her brother knew her house well.

He knew the shapes and light in her paintings.

He did not raise his arms to find the arch of her door frames.

His hands grasped, but did not grope.

She pivoted against his weight,

and screamed,

invoking sight.

She wished her nails to grow piercing,

to burn with the pain of rust,

the darkness of umber.

She twisted her arm,

reaching for hope,

needles,

a knife.

Her hand found the safe, round rim of an open paint pot.

She felt inside, thinking of menstrual blood, wasted life.

She cleaned it from her fingers,

those arched ibises in flight,

with a sweep along his hung brow.

She was desperate for sleep.

When he rose,

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

when he left,

she remained still,

wanting

to become nothing in thick,

blind night.

She watched too many spinning clocks

before she finally dreamed of

sleep.

Her thoughts revolved around the painted mark,

His unquestionable face.

She was a secret holiday feast.

She longed to be an ordinary, morning egg.

She waited for blue, for almost night.

Carefully, she made the swing of a repeated orbiting cut.

This removed her gentle egg breasts.

She lay them into her best deepest-set serving dish.

This was her shield now that she no longer owned warmth,

deep infant rest.

She followed him with this patina of blood,

her breasts pale full moons in the half-shell bowl.

Her hands were white with weight,

her plain milk face

waiting,

asking,

"You love me much like life—life and breathing.

So you enter and leave my body.

“You love me so much,

should I not enter yours?

Eat this meat.

This is me.

The best part you have already taken.

Eat this and I will become within you

a perennial half-seed.

I will grow,

an unanswered question that waits,

sometimes forgotten,

never sated."

She followed him three days before he ran from her,

from her body,

her bowl.

Her anger burned her hair.

She painted her face with its ashes,

and rose in a pyre of whining-siren steam.

Her watchfulness became the light of day.

His only solace now is night.

His sister uncovers his face and repeats

the bleeding of her mourning wounds.

Before sleep, she removes the healing skin

from her horizon chest.

She makes sure that light is always her presence.

Only then can she rest.

-Kat Isacson

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