Moon house

We come from an empty room
where we slept on cold air.
There’s ice in the grass.
Night is an envelope.

There have been other moons:
spills of orange, clear faces,
crescents framed by windows,
coins turned in pockets

but oh! this deluge of light,
vast slow invasion of the house –
making a space for the dead
and the living, a dance floor

for wounds and blessings.
This moon conjures phantoms,
she writes our shadow names
on her invitation.