I.
The Moon is too full,
and the stars are curtained,
snuffed out, stifled in their
cradles before they can cry,
because their mother is too
bright, too large, too low
on the horizon, low enough
to kiss treetops the stars
can never kiss. The Moon
loves treetops, and starlings
in their quiet nests.
II.
The Moon has strangled
herself in mourning, doused
her light in funeral black,
and now the stars dance,
fire buoys against the sea
of night so we wayward ships
won’t lose ourselves in the
black. The stars hear our tears
when the Moon is too
drowned in her own.
III.
The Sun forgets his lover.
He never sees her alabaster
cheek, nor the pockmark scars
beneath her veil. He shines,
careless, unconcerned, on
treetops and the empty nests of
starlings. He does not reach out
to comfort her. She must shrug her
own veil off. The Moon must glow
without him, but she knows only
the inward focus of reflection.
