Mirror Moon
There wasn't much left of the moon
when they got done with her.
They walked on her face
turned her rock and dust
blood and bone
to specimens and souvenirs.
Only her bright eye
stayed open, and her broken lips
still formed the oldest words.
She was seen
because she'd learned to
give back light, heat, the radiation
bombarding her, her severed mouth
buzzing at the mad, at poets and priestesses.
Split between fire and ice
shadow and sun, she made a mirror for
silver darkness, perfectly alone
in an array piercing infinite night.
There was not much left of me
when you were through;
a circled eye half blind,
a mumble of separated lips
lost to reason. I found myself
sistered by the moon; she knew me
still despite the shatter
and with her borrowed light
she let me shine.
October 2021
posted for
Images: Untitled, author unknown via Sunday Muse Fair Use
Night, 1905 © Mikalojus Konstantinus Ciurlionis Fair Use
