Pale

The moon is split in half tonight.

Straight across her belly, not lengthwise.

She is carved into, as I gaze up through speckled dying leaves and fading clouds. Like empty beer bottles shattering and clouds of smoke disintegrating.

My throat hurts. My head. My heart.

My seatbelt is partially in. It did not buckle.

I think of tea. Cold medicine. Brushed teeth and water.

I wince at the feeling of any of it hitting my smoked bovine flesh.

Raw and supple.

My left hand nestles between fat folds, the right above my hip bone. I gaze at the jagged edge in the moon. Bleary and pale in the way nothing so beautiful should be.

I feel pale.