Lunafull

Here comes that bald nun again,

catching out the werewolves 

(you know who you are).

According to habit

she adjusts her coif and wimple

at each slice

shuffling through phases like  a nurse on Xanax.

She forgot her rosary, 

but the mumbles say themselves by now

mostly just a ghostess,

a reminder that the rent is due.

A valve in my head

drips ancient fluid.

Most days it’s a slow leak,

nadi to nadi, 

sap trickling down 

to the sump of my spine,

pooling there like red salt brine.

But on nights when the nun is bald

the gunnery salutes

firing all 31

like a brace of silver bullets.

She knows I’m just a man 

in a nightime tee,

alarming a glow

at the base of his neck.

Is this the terrible sting

they all talk about,

or just the radiator bonking?