For the old hunger crow moons I lay fallow, dreaming of you with my eyes open. I woke in the moons of wolf seed milk smelling the pulses of your blood: the quick hammer of your heart, the slow toll of your womb. In the hare hot flower moons I watched you under hay thunder, grain lightning. In this blue moon, I hide behind you, I turn when you turn. I fit my shape into the place you can never see in mirrors. When the corn blood moons harvest I'll bite your nape, soft like the wind as a lover. I'll eat you slow, and grow fat for the ill frost. In the moon of winter's oak, I'll take your scent before I lay me down again.
Vajra Chandrasekera lives in Colombo, Sri Lanka and tweets occasionally at @_vajra. His first poem was published in Ideomancer and nominated for the 2013 Rhysling Award. He also has short fiction forthcoming in Apex Magazine.