Shale

Shale

Shale

What leaves us trembling in an empty house 
is not the moon, my moon-eyed lover. 
Say instead there was no moon 
though for nine nights we stood 
 
on the brow of the hill at midnight 
and saw nothing that was not 
contained in darkness, in the pier light, 
our hands, and our lost house. 
 
Small wonder that we tired of this 
and chose instead to follow the road 
to the back of the island, and broke 
into the lighthouse-keeper’s house. 
 
We found the lower windows boarded up 
and the doors held fast, but one. 
Inside, we followed the drag of light 
through empty rooms of magenta and sky blue. 
 
This house has been decided by the sea. 
These rooms are stones washed over by waves 
and spray from the lighthouse 
by which we undress 
 
to kneel under the skylight. 
Our hands and lips are smeared with blackberries. 
Your skin, my sloe-skinned lover, 
never so sweet, your hand so quiet. 
 
The sea is breaking and unbreaking on the pier. 
You and I are making love 
in the lighthouse-keeper’s house, 
my moon-eyed, dark-eyed, fire-eyed lover. 
 
What leaves us trembling in an empty room 
is not the swell of darkness in our hands, 
or the necklace of shale I made for you 
that has grown warm between us.