Luna

La Luna loves music, flamenco, rembetika, the sweat of the singers flung into the choked air of the dance floor. Sometimes she even dances, cigar clenched in her teeth, a rose in her hand and those dancers who do not see her, later they will swear there was something special in the air. La Luna drinks thick rum, sweet with the memory of molasses, the billow of sails and sailors laughter, brandy, cognac, anything with the scent of the cask or nameless concoctions in bottles without labels, bursting onto the tongue like gypsy music, words flying into the sky in a shower of sparks.

La Luna loves a sad story, will meet the Angel, who never sleeps, find him in his usual corner hunched over a drink, hiding his eyes an she will place a friend’s hand on his shoulder, the greeting of the otherwordly and he will begin to speak of advice rejected, help not given, lives lost and helpless. Sometimes Death will join them, wipe the seat with his handkerchief, and gently, for the Angel is a creature who still believes in hope, will tell his own stories.

La Luna cries for all the lost, all the disappointed, the heart broken but not least for herself as in her weeping comes the realisation that dawn is coming and with its light she must fade, evaporate and return once more to the blasted moon, to her lover, his empty eyes forever trapped in the gaping void.

excerpts from La Luna,
a gift from Swiss

I am fascinated with the moon, how writers have written about the moon, and how poets have been moonstruck [...] The Moon, as character here, is a performer, broken-hearted, but she still has to dress up and step onto the universal stage every night. If she doesn’t, it stays dark down here and all Chaos will ensue. This is her dilemma.

Patricia Barber