by Reena Ribalow
My plants are moonstruck.
Moon dusts their uplifted palms.
Onto the terrace sifts the pallid light:
on rooftops, on the puppet cars,
a winter-colored, phosphorescent breath.
My womb is moon-seared
and its moonscapes, flat as death.
In lunar rays the mind is bent
to mutant shapes.
Only missiles will flower overhead,
their moment’s purgatory paling to
a fatal radiance of white.
Last updated May 29, 2011