mother, Moon

As moonlight pours, silvery and magical, over the windowsill

I am tethered to my child self who made promises to its mother, the moon,
and cup my hands in its grandeur to reflect in the way it softens me
under my own unforgiving gaze



If the moon were my mother, my sister, and my home,
would she be kind to me?
Would I remain twelve years old, complete, unaching?



Her craters would cradle my weary bones,
her cold surface warmed by my cheek pressing upon it,
and I would sing her false songs about her astral beauty
because I could never betray her maternal care
by telling her that she will never be as beautiful as the sun.