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.