I

You can see them as they move among you
their opalescent aura shimmers like summer pavement heat,
mother-of-pearl, on the tips of their frizzed-out split ends.
They like to think they're normal.
The light behind their eyes is a look they share with the acid-
eaters, you know, an enlightened other-worldliness.
Their power comes from this world, though,
the dark side lighted only by the cycles of the moon . . .
Draw it down, draw it down.
The world of night is their kingdom --
they rule as the rulers sleep.
In woody nature the feather light edges soften
the twinkle of lights glimpsed in the trees.
They leap from one long shadow to the next,
Zig-zagging in catty-corners.
Everything in the negative, the feminine dark shadows
moon-shortened.

II

In the suburbs, you can hear the triumphant "Hah!"
as the pretty girl dances from her tiny tab. Night vision
comes from dropping back, pupils wide giving dark eyes
innocent overtones. Lovely Sacred Daughter of Diane.
She is sister to children of the moon, city lights too
close, ancient roots faded. Frantic finger-
honey finds solace in the night, each star a distant diamond
winkling clearly reflected in the dark space of her eyes.
The mad chant sweats beneath her delicate summer rain gown.
Using the game to create the essential essence,
she is led in where glowing bulbs force the male upon her.
Mist is left on the threshold; inside where the air won't move
her delicate power pounds beneath the want of others.
In her tiny sleep, the music of her distant siblings dying
doesn't waken her.

Heather Shaw has been a poetry editor, a performance poet at Lollapalooza, and was recently nominated for a Rhysling. When not immersed in verse, she writes fiction, non-fiction and makes up silly songs with her boyfriend, writer Tim Pratt. For more, see her Web site.