The Lilith Demands the Moon

Give me the moon, I said.

Wisp and drip it down

between the clouds.

Slide it across my back

like a mantle of lilied oil.

I have never bathed in moonlight.

Never eaten fruit made pale by starlight,

popped between my teeth by long-fingered

lovers, repentant and returned

from prodigal lands.

Mind those tender sunned-peach hands.

For the shadows beneath my breasts are sharp,

as dark as the secret crescent

of the waxing moon.

Drink to me. Feast at the

table of my planted feet.

Set your face to the ground and

taste the snaking roots as you

whisper my name into the earth.

I have been hungry for so long.

Angry, and tired, and sick from sun.

Give me the moon. And I

will take from you slowly—gently,

coldly—your traitor’s votive longing

for the clean break of day.

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Marisa Celeste Montany was born and raised on the Big Island of Hawaii, splitting time between Ka‘u and Kona. After spending her twenties as a professional ballet dancer, she attended Middle Tennessee State University where she graduated summa cum laude with a double major in history and English. She currently resides in Maryland with her husband where she takes walks, studies herbs, reads books, and writes speculative fiction and poetry. You can find her most recent publications at The Orange & Bee and Crow and Cross Keys. Visit her at marisamontany.com. She loves horizons.