I’d always told myself
the late night moonlight
glow riding her skin as
she slept was a matter
of pure matter, simple
science. The way the world
builds itself. I believed her
low blaze to be atomic
deceit, particles arranged
to dupe me back into
an abiding realm where
the question is written
as a rhetorical answer—
a shimmering borealis
claiming true north.
But then she’d lift
from the bottom layer
of a dream to pull my face
toward her, squinting
at some nether version
of the fool she knew
she’d married for love—
and I’d try to sleep.
One midnight the farmhouse
we rented dead center
of the almond orchard
shook in moonless wind
as if to dare me into
the dark. And it did—
I left our bed, stepping
soundlessly onto
the peeling porch,
then upon the patch
of night-black grass, and
stood as still as the wind
would allow. I could hear
in the infinite webs
of almond limbs a high
voice I knew was no
voice, but, rather, a siren
risen from ancient ganglia,
the sound of a whistling
taunt, a tinnitus
betraying my belief
in only the tactile. And
even if it were nothing
more than high-pitched
worry sending me back
to her side all aching
night, I held out
my hand, tried to gauge
the untouchable
hovering from her—