Under the Moon as it Rises

I love the thought of running
out under the moon as it rises
on warm sand, still warm
from the day Like me
like my skin hot
like when I was just born
My black hair the night
flanking the moon, impending
(to run toward it as it rises too)…

But I don’t live near beaches
near dunes Just a city
that runs to the water and ceases
runs down and over hills
that keep me as a fish
in a bowl a cat in a bowl
hemmed in and antsy
scratching for the sun to leave
and let me run over sand to sea

Carving valleys with my claws
a prayer to bring rain
to bring the hills down
or turn them to dunes
to waves to let me away
across the wild Soft and hot
sand black white and red
on my paw pads and unending
Running and running and running…

Meg Doughty

Meg Doughty: I am a reactionary writer who is fascinated by the everyday mystic. I completed my English Honours degree in June from Vic, where I was lucky to be taught by Anna Jackson. I grew up with a black cat and we read Meg and Mog books together, convincing me I was a witch. I am now living in the big smoke, Auckland.

Meg’s poem ‘Potion’ at Starling