COURTING THE NUMINOUS

Under a scimitar of a moon,
an uninvited vagabond crawls
under our blankets.
It has scorpion red eyes
and a phosphorescent
green shell on its back.
After leaving a purple stain
with the scent of lust
on our crispy white sheets,
it runs away on its black hairy legs
humming Mendelssohn’s C Major March.
It rolls back time to our wedding night
at B’nai Brak, reminding me to stomp on a glass,
and remember the last time I put my foot down.