An American moon fixes in her
pale eyes of shattered snail shells.
A moon raised by the old Aztec God,
straining his knees,
a white crescent shell wet on his back.

She sprang out of dust and river
because home was a begging hand
too small for hunger
and North was a silver coin.

Elsewhere the moon performs
some other familiar ministry,
like a shepherd leading them
to where she is now, gazing at a moon
crestfallen, and crying into her hands.

Pockets here are like dry tongues. Useless
she thinks staring at this moon, a silver coin,
and weight of home heavy on her back.




Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s