LUNE DE SANG

D.J. Parris

 

to myself, you fold
laundry and don’t look

just before pulling
 
apart sheers and drapes.
Not directly above
nor on the horizon just
 
horizontally justified
brilliant sliver what
cups a moon named
 
of our blood. Our
star glows through
our edge; light red
 
Roscolene/moment
the light would slip
away. I continued
 
folding. Our perigean/
sole satellite hangs.
In the moment when
 
light seemed about
to end, shadow reversed
course. All the laws
 
of planetary motion
halted/I folded laundry.
(can shitjust change?)
 
Anything was possible.
(aliens!/heaven!/magic!)
Then- no. Cloud passes.

 

∘∘∘