by kdillmanjones



Light of the full moon danced

through a partially shaded window.


It came in warm, seductive.

Hot like a streetcar.


There was her daughter’s first duck sock,

the green table and the purple cup.


Moonlight drenched it tall,

left it whet and wanting.


It flooded over Anne Enright’s faces

and Sylvia Plath’s ex.


It disturbed the dead

and woke the living.


Her glasses were still there,

her lamp, her lotion.


Altered now,

set anew or set apart.


“Luna,” she whispered

in her restless slumber.


Gods froze. Time leapt.

Or maybe it froze too.


She awoke to her Friday,

her tea and toast.


Forgetting, unwhetting.

“Luna,” she heard in the breeze.


Mundane, full of pain.

“Luna,” she whispered again.


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