Her Mate is Just Like the Moon


Her mate is just like the moon.
To each gaze a different smile.
The moon, of course, is acting,
and very good at that.
Meanwhile, a doting Mummy down the road
is planning a birthday party for her girlie,
Hawaiian themed, with hibiscus in the hair,
grass skirts and paper necklaces.
Just fancy the look on the unlucky guests,
and the entertainer, who’s even smarter
at faking it.
No pro, my soul, it’s just not you
to swoon at dewy grass.
Mummies leave you blasé.
So do clouds spreading funny rumors
all over fake heavens.
Yet, you’d like to have a friend
even if you look cold, a bit detached,
the sun might do, but you shunned him
cos he was too pesky, that guy.

May I suggest you pick a dry twig alone in the street,
and let the limbs go, or you’ll end up
like the air the sky iced out
for being too brash, worse than a forest of aerials.
A good friend the night?
Why not, but she’s too caught
between winter and desire, and halts a life
already mired in red lines and blue corners.

Only colors matter,
so don’t freeze desire,
keep to yourself, stay safe,
and give your words away only to the Moon
when she scatters across the sky,
comets and stars galore–sure she’s enhancing life,
right? Maybe, but a different sky
is spreading strange scraps round you.

Simple as that, the slant light of a tough strife,
the very light your life
wouldn’t mind turning into a sunset-
or a midnight tonight.


What’s happening over there?
The happy, merry-go-lucky swimmers
are splashing about and joking
with the white foam of the waves-
except waves, being a bit careless,
think that sweeping swimmers over is such a blast,
except sometimes a corpse is brought ashore.
Ah, what a heartbreak!
You need a scene change,

a music dancing breezy in the air,
as white books remind you the underwood-
is it what you want, the months creeping back,
your begetters in dark and green,
when you had no say in the matter.
not your choice saps, roots, or branches.

Listen, hers is the urge of a gambler.
She looks askance at seclusion, water, wind,
after all, how can she warn you,
this broken light of sunsets, billboards, births?
This cheap blue for sale in the corners of your mind,
who wraps you up, and the silence of strangers,
maybe women-
gave you a set, cobalt-blue of course,
to shade those who discard births,
and think a creation in green looks much better.

To sum it up, don’t forget that slant ceasefire,
when you run into the loss, animals, dusty people.
It may be out, I know, but blue does the trick,
if heaven leaves you caught in unsuitable dawns
when the soul beats you black and blue-
worse than a virus, lips on fire.
Just like a lover’s limbs on a racy night.
She says love is the heartbeat of immortality.
‘So very true’, he sighs, ever the smart actor
while keeping a straight face and sneering to himself.


Are you strewing seeds, or migrant clouds?
Stop waiting for the wind, my soul.
Migrant clouds rise among chilled swimmers on the beach.
Boats slowly skimming the waves.
Piebald sails that seem to fly and sparkle.
A high-spirited lady claims so intense.

Is love you wish to blend into your lover-
might be so, but why lads are in stitches,
one of them ogling a scantily-clad teen.
Game’s yours. Now, scatter words, scatter clouds,
It’s your start, so forget those angry skies
burning worse than lovers’ stares
anytime they tear the moon apart-
and where are now the mates you hung out with?
Them mates, yes, now whose souls
are swamped in stifling rooms,
cramped with rebellious windows, intrusive draughts,
and your self-deceiving women.
Nothing more, deffo, but are they a cop-out or false friends?


Whatever, soul, please don’t look so sad.
Don’t try too hard to play the game.
See, the sky has already set up stars, cloudbursts,
a blue anger, the armor he wears if you fancy
getting in touch with him.
Not to mention, my love, that delirious jabber of sand,
shouting colors, tropical resorts, the same weary pretext
as he hardly thinks you a worthy sparring partner.
So, the anxious clouds will run for it,
casual tiffs, blazing rows, who cares
so long as leaving shines green, all over the moon,
and light feels stronger than her first words.
Her vibrant noes, while she wonders if light
can last all day long among dust, shelters, and drawers,
or simply let you on the loose,
and what if light stumbles?

She’ll get hold of you,
you’ll fall down, see, such things happen
when light is askew, her borders clash with ailments,
or symptoms, and the only handy remedy is
to fight harms, and loss.

Now, it’s your turn. Stop it, fire, my reckless friend.
Beware, everyone is a maze

where everyone gets lost,
with books whirling fast, plants falling down
in the background.

Look, my soul, light is here, among all the women
who went wrong more than once and paid for dear life
while no one cared.
Let mothers, women, and places scream at her
to run for the hills. No room for intruders.
Let the mantle of darkness be slick
with strange clouds, weird stars; whenever those artists,
the time, and the sky, walk by

arm in arm, and someone is writing at home
under a biting truth bathed in light.

Life? Maybe, but no names are exchanged.
She’s undercover tonight, so are ol’ die-hard habits.
See, just like the moon, they thrive underground.

By Gabriella Garofalo – Silvi Marina, Abruzzo, Italy

Feature Photo by Daniel Torobekov

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