There's blood on the moon tonight.
It flows over the white, once bright as clean sheets;
now a contagion of raw yellow over a half-eclipsed sphere.

We drink shiraz,
it stains our lips and tongues burnt orange.

The next eclipse is three years away
and I wonder if your shadow will
engulf me then, burn cheeks red,
block the light.

But that would be impossible.
Our orbits would need to cross the same plane of space,
and your schedule is somewhat erratic.

My moon will never be completely dark.
I have lingering memories
of settling dust and water vapor.

This poem appeared in Poems Niederngasse (PD4P)