Hello, Moon.

A college professor of mine
often referred to herself as “lugubrious”
As if it were a state of being—instead
of an adjective.
A preexisting condition.
As if the admittance were a disclaimer—a warning
that she may at any moment slip
into what Charles Darwin would call, “the fits”
and we would be left to fend for ourselves.

Still, I cannot separate her –
confident thighs (perched atop small rounded feet)
holding up the curl of her hair
the sound of her reading
heavy words, husky words--unlike languid, fleshy, sinewy
I cannot separate her from lugubrious.

And not until the darkness appeared, did I
understand.
The winter
months
were
long
this year.
I blamed the moon. His unrelenting absence.
Nestled somewhere on the other side
of the world, wooing strangers with his
many faces, his many lives. While
lovers like myself wasted away
collapsed into “fits” and marveled at the
ease at which our skin made
way for muscle and bone
to meet air.
The winter
months
were
long
this year.