jars of moonlight for depature

i used to wait for rapture,
face open like a can of green beans,
palms wide to flocks of orange.
i stand by for the flood. buy rain boots
made of seaweed & tea cups. talk to the sewer
& say, "tell me where you carry 
your leaves." my friend washes mason jars
free of their sticky blackberry jam guts 
& i steal them in preparation. if no one else
is going to savor each moon, than it will be
up to me. as the oven heats we talk about
how almost everyone thinks to themselves
"i am the only one who can." i promise you
i am not the only one who can do this.
dipping the mouth of a jar into
the moon's bright forehead. telling the moon,
"this will only hurt ofr a second." did you know
rocks feel pain? not just blunt force
but emotional too. sometimes sandstone
will twinkle with the memories of ground
& grit. jewels weep recalling the great pressure
that bore them. we all know that feeling--
forced into crystal & a mouth bleeding sugar.
i keep the moon light all for myself
but, one day, when we need it,
i'll approach strangers & say, "i know a place
where you can drink the moon again."
they will follow me. i will be 
the only one. the only one in the world
with so much moonlight. i'll give them
the whole jar & say, "tell no one."
there are many form of greed. i'm giving you mine
because i am aware the sky is moving out.
boxes on the curb of the universe.
she is spitting blue out one comet at a time.
i too want to rid myself of everything
for which i've come to be known just to see
what would be left. i lied though,
i do spend some of the light on myself.
sit cross-legged on the hardwood floor.
spoon in hand. take one mouthful.
fill with ancient talking. maybe i am 
anticipating more than i'm ready to admit.
if you take me up, i want to go piecemeal.
bone by bone until one day there is
only the grin of a rib & then gone.