Silhouettes
Amy Bouse
Gill McEvoy
In the fierce light of these huge moons
that bleach the world to underwater pallor,
I think of the "Romance Sonambulo",
its green horse on the mountainside,
green boat on the sea.
Lorca’s moonlight pries in through
the window like a blade of steel,
carves out whiteness on the skin,
shadowed with a tinge of green.
A knife is raised, an icicle of grief
stabs through the heart; a sword
of moonlight enters skin,
cuts the life out from within.
A shell of woman rocks in breeze,
so cold her eyes are metal caves.
Bloodless, silver in the moon,
wrapped in the empty skin of loss.
I claw the poem’s cruel moonlight
from my eyes: with a shudder,
recognise myself.