wolf moon

fall back in love with yourself, the silver 

bathing the sky commands, and i stop

and i look and i listen. ritual candles

have nothing on me, patron saint 

of the cycle of softness, violence,

and rebirth. sometimes i find myself

wishing for a little less ash, a little more

gold glitter and crystal clusters suspended

in melting wax. if i celebrate myself,

does the universe eventually follow suit?

i grow feral, light dried fir on fire, praise

my own endurance—the sense of spite

that has kept me alive. sometimes

i think it can’t always be so cynical, 

remember the inherent hope in the act

of falling asleep: my eyes will open

again. the sun will continue to inundate 

the bedroom with its body until it burns out.