Self-Portrait as Diana, Virgin Goddess of the Moon and the Hunt

So now I’m the moon: pallid
and huge, with so many phases
of wanting and then not wanting
a body. Your body. I crave the kind

of kiss where The Other has pitched
a tent in my tonsils. I study kisses.
Then, I do fieldwork and find results
that do not match my thought-out

hypotheses: tongue sandpapery,
rough like a cat’s. Or lip-glossed
mouth locked up, like the front
of a foreclosed house. I think

I want the penne I ordered, then
as it comes piping tableside
I develop, suddenly, an allergy
to wheat. I give out dating tips

like Hallowe’en sweets, but each
time I get a Plenty Of Fish missive
I shut my browser and moan. I want—
what? A rom-com life? I once had

a date where we did Wholesome
Date Things, like checking off a list:
dinner, chitchat, ice cream, a long
walk, even snogging in the park.

But you can’t make a puzzle fit
grass into pieces of sky. I have
wanted a girlfriend the idea of a girlfriend
since Grade Three, when with sweat-

sodden palms I asked the pretty,
blonde New Girl in Class to be
my very best friend. But I have paid
for numerous solutions: speed dating/

with algorithms/ for asexuals/ for queers/
for us, the increasingly desperate few.
I wanted it all, until I didn’t want it at all.
I am predictable as the Moon’s wax

and wane. It’s like with gallery nudes:
you can admire the curvature of
Venus’ ass without taking her out
to drink moonshine and dance.