almost full moon

and the neighbors, were they awake, would see her,
half-immersed in the outdoor tub, sneaking looks
at that dark dip where breasts converge
and the crucial line of a bathing suit top that
obfuscates the view. They would see her draw knees
to her chest and wrap hands around ankles
to pull herself together in a vague but earnest attempt
to secularize the space between them, though the wine
had lightened her grip considerably and the light
from that moon strong and bright enough to reveal
a slight blush to her cheeks, and the heat from the water
palpitating her heart so she could feel its little throb
rise to her throat. Sometimes, all there is to do
is lean into the question mark and be surrounded
by its ochre halo, let it illuminate what it will,
and shadow the rest,
as if for safekeeping.