The moon comes to me as a peddler selling dreams,
his pale pock-marked face cracked
in a wide toothless grin, crescent back bent
with the weight of his wares.
He is piled high with crystal cages
of feathered animals that sing, ancient
mirrors full of gateways, lanterns lit
with shimmering moths, puzzle boxes
you can live in. A bunch of polished
bone keys clatter and whistle at his hip.
Clinking fishbowls in his silken
slings thrash with nightmares
whirling spiny limbs, flashing
jagged fangs, dark webbed paws pressed
against misted glass.
One fixes me
with flaming eyes, tries
to draw me in, ragged jaws open.
At the back of his pack,
a pair of dusty silver wings wait.
They look just my size.
his pale pock-marked face cracked
in a wide toothless grin, crescent back bent
with the weight of his wares.
He is piled high with crystal cages
of feathered animals that sing, ancient
mirrors full of gateways, lanterns lit
with shimmering moths, puzzle boxes
you can live in. A bunch of polished
bone keys clatter and whistle at his hip.
Clinking fishbowls in his silken
slings thrash with nightmares
whirling spiny limbs, flashing
jagged fangs, dark webbed paws pressed
against misted glass.
One fixes me
with flaming eyes, tries
to draw me in, ragged jaws open.
At the back of his pack,
a pair of dusty silver wings wait.
They look just my size.
Lucy Whitehead writes haiku and poetry. Her haiku have been published widely in various international journals and anthologies, and her poetry has appeared in Barren Magazine, Black Bough Poetry, Burning House Press, Mookychick Magazine, and Twist in Time Literary Magazine, and is forthcoming in Collective Unrest and Amethyst Review. Her Twitter handle is @blueirispoetry.