Tonic for the Gibbous Moon
BY EMILY O’NEILL
Down by the Common, there’s tell
of poorly moored boats, a cab lost to drink,
star men, their hands colluding. I repeat
the large black space like a yawn. Wind
unzips our coats. We do not recognize friends
in profile. Turn your own head; become
uncanny to me. Drink through your vision
quest. Show me your face. The teeth you hate,
that roguish beard. Lend me your tired mouth