Stillborn

my left eye

photo by m. morgan, 2016

Stillborn

 

The moon hangs down

nearly breaking the dark

membrane of sky.

Halfway here and halfway

out there, in some wide

pulse of space beyond a skin of sky

a scrim of charcoal, chalked tissue, distended moon hangs

as if some creature, fingering

a luminous gel-stone, lost

interest in the thing and dropped it.

So the slighted moonstone pleads

pendulous to the pull of the ground.

And the whole sky labors

like a woman to drop

a life from her body.

But it cannot get

down, netted as it is in wet

skin,

cannot sluice through that

indifference into

this.

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