Even roses blush when my love undresses in the moonlight.
Clair de lune lilacs blossom when her chest is in the moonlight.
When the kiss evaporates, do you return to the burled world?
Will you forget the songshape of his Yeses in the moonlight?
He leapt over our bonfires — shirtless, howling, and stunning —
during the summer of stolen caresses in the moonlight.
You ask her advice. She says, Keep some secrets even from god.
You ask, Where can I find love? She confesses, In the moonlight.
I’m in the heart of the village. I’m the night’s last hearth fire.
She’s the gazelle before the lionesses in the moonlight.
The weight of night. The crush of the cargo of feral darkness.
The heavy and hidden hand that presses in the moonlight.
Our souls transmigrated into cottonwoods along the cove.
The rest of our lives felt like evanescence in the moonlight.
Holly, remember that despite it all, your days are halfway
doused in sunshine. Never mind if the rest is in the moonlight.
HOLLY JENSEN’s work has appeared or is upcoming in Pank Magazine, the minnesota review, and The Midwest Quarterly. Her traditional and free ghazals have appeared in Kestrel, Tilt-a-Whirl, Clockwise Cat, and elsewhere. She first fell in love with Jim Harrison’s bawdy, tender free ghazals over 10 years ago. She calls Cleveland, Ohio home. She is now the editor of The Ghazal Page. Send her your ghazals.