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the girl pulled the reading lamp cord
and the moon vanished.
In her backyard, fog thickened,
lacing wild rose bushes,
and covering the walkway in clouds.

The only light remaining flickered
in her pocket like a firefly.

She tugged again at the metal cord
and tried not to hear the blare of ambulances
and the shouts of people pointing up at the sky.

When the ground cooled below her,
she tucked her feet in slippers
and opened the door.

The light flapped inside her blouse
frantic as a trapped bee.

When she removed the object from her pocket,
moon crust flaking in her hands like shaved charcoal,
she tried not to stare at the now broken craters.

She tried not to stare at the hole in the sky
where the moon once settled.  She tried not to stare
at parting clouds without their silvery anchor.

Maybe if she broke the reading lamp
with the swinging metal cord, it would be enough.

Or she could pull that cord once more,
and let the moon leap back into the sky,

released from the pull of the earth:
her house, her bedroom-
her snug, warm pocket.

 

Robin Dawn Hudechek

This poem is published in Caliban Online #25.  I am very honored and thrilled to have four poems (pgs. 26-30) in this very beautiful and exciting journal, filled with brilliant writing and stunning artwork.    Please check it out!   http://calibanonline.com/25/index.html