Under The Heavy Moon

The telephone rang
  the other evening
and it was my father there,
asking
if everything was
all right, and I said
  yes,
the street outside is wet,
the sky is blue.
Not one word about
  the empty spoons
sitting naked on the table,
silver cups cradling damp
cotton puffs, pressed down
into disks, a strange
   pink.
Not one word about
the sore arm,
the stained song,
or the exploded mind.

Just me,
sitting on the porch,
in that orange street of light,
  under the heavy moon,
 inhaling the unfinished scream
  in the iron night,
watching these late black ants just run
in circles over my arm, up and down
  my arm.
  As if
all they had to do was run
and keep running,
and I could never catch them.

Christopher Celestina

The Addicts Excuse

I have walked you to your door and it is dark,
not dusk as in that brown drought summer
when you plucked a wood tick
from my hip and laughed,
rolling it like a swollen white bead
between your fingers before
snapping it with a quick red pop while
smiling with the left side of your mouth
under that needle embroidering new stars.

I never asked any questions then
and the oracle in your eyes spoke
in deep ocean tides that threw out golden
rings of foam, so the yellow dropping sun
would go down smooth
like a shot of liquor poured
between your lips first
then mine.
And it made death
easy.

But tonight I pull the blue throat of my coat tight
above the hard stone under my tongue.
I do not try to smile
as you pass into the warm light
of your living room
turning to me and the dark 

with that same grin
as if you
had just plucked me
from below the chestnut line
at the nape or your neck,
and were rolling my empty head
between your fingers,

giving it a playful squeeze
before you gently shut
the scratched
white door.

Christopher Celestina