Sonnet 10

Poem By Anthony Parker

Moonlight through an open window
doesn’t rest on you—it pours itself
on you, hair dragging over your face

lighter than breath. It licks you on
the shoulder blade, slides between
your breasts like someone who knows
the way you want to be touched. It is

an open hand that measures it palms
and fingers evenly with yours while
pressing its lips against your stomach.
If it could say your name, the tone

would be the same used in prayer—
words carved out of steam, rising: true
ascension, healed from years of want.

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