Moon house

by Clare Best

We come from an empty room
where we slept on cold air.
There’s ice in the grass.
Night is an envelope.

There have been other moons:
spills of orange, clear faces,
crescents framed by windows,
coins turned in pockets

but oh! this deluge of light,
vast slow invasion of the house –
making a space for the dead
and the living, a dance floor

for wounds and blessings.
This moon conjures phantoms,
she writes our shadow names
on her invitation.