Wild Child

There it is: the moon
on the mouth of some devil
and below, the city
is a silhouette, with little
fingers deformed, reaching for light
but never could. Same as her: a
wild child, of forest descent,
fingertips rough as they sanded
the oak and redwood.
No wine pours from her lips, but
raw acidity such as the papaya
pickled for days — her thoughts
twist and turn in her head the same;
fermenting, developing taste
for the seasoned tongue. She wishes
a fixation’s release from the city,
but how to proceed? There it is:
the moon on the mouth of some devil.
Were it that she can make
the roof of her mouth blackest
night, a home for stars, she will
never need the city, the city
will keep its fingers at bay, and
will never reach her lips. Her thoughts
twist and turn and squirm
in her head all the same.