Tonight the crescent moon hangs as thin and sharp
as the nail of a woman who's been thinking
all night, looking at the moon, holding herself
like a forgotten gift. When she goes
to the bureau for the pistol, her mind is as clear
as the air, light as the thin coat of oil
on the metal. It lies
in her palm as heavy as sin. How easily
she moves to the door, as if
she were a character in a movie, gliding
silently across a marble floor.
Every night the moon goes through this, holding
itself carefully, as if its light might break
the sky like ice.
Other pieces in this issue by Marguerite Floyd:
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