your desire for the moon holds the weight
of a steam-powered whaling ship.
it is why we braid wreaths for the cows,
why the light after dusk behaves like startled deer.
when the moon’s lamb-face appears through
the forest’s mane, your skin begins to bloom,
mantling me in its petals. a memory lets go
of your throatlatch; it is rain now
turning us into moss.


the scythe-moon rises above the wheat-fields,
its blade leaving us untouched. no one speaks here
but our bodies drip with names like faucets.
your body holding the vagueness of one between
vitrification and glassblowing. your body, a lake.
I do not ask if I’ll bathe or drown / desire is
the awareness of dying. no owls
in the hollow trunk of your chest. no moon.

Triin Paja is an Estonian, living in a small village in rural Estonia. Her poetry has appeared in The MothBOAAT Journal, Otis Nebula, The Cossack Review, Gloom Cupboard, The Missing Slate, and elsewhere. She writes by riverbeds, forests, various cities, countries and dreams.