Woman by Moonlight

Beneath the millstone of your appraisal, these summer years

have pressed me thin: dry leaves waiting for the howling naked arms of fall and

the low hung moon of memory.

 

The hanged red moon of memory.

 

I become the gasping fire: the creaking log and popping flare.

You toss on another broken limb and count the rings, heavy with

the bruised fruit moon of memory.

 

The hungry moon of memory.

 

But leaves and fire cannot long dance: fast flying, fast failing spark extinguished.

I used to be a woman, with earth brown hair and eyes, stretched beneath

the baleful moon of memory.

 

The stark cold moon of memory.

 

Now I am sculpted in regolith and dust,

False, forced, diffuse, but fierce, pressing skyward 

against the still wind’s moon of memory.

The distant moon of memory.

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