Give Me Back My Moon


Give Me Back My Moon

When I was 18 you stripped the moon.
Abandoned it
like a cold pox,
an arroyo scar,

and there it hangs, magnificently.
Cast like desire rising.
Bleed me on rise.
Bleed me on set.

It’s an opal scrape of anger,
as if placed on dried
twigs and branches
might cast it alight.

Look at it, as I see it now,
not a young fool
freshly filled with
romance, rather

an unearthly bronzed folktale,
a wind-blown
bath that grows fools.
Give me back my moon.


for Margo’s “Cast” prompt and MLMM “Moon” image



Poem form: The Minute, except that I broke it a few times. Blame it on moon.


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