By Roberta Curley
This poem is dedicated to all victims of the October 31, 2017 New York City terror attack.
Even the moon is mourning.
She’s in protection mode tonight,
in cahoots with unsettled clouds
who don black crepe to
crisscross her full-moon glare.
The moon apologizes to
worshippers and fans,
those reliant upon her—
campers, lovers, poets, children.
The pearl orb is clearly not herself.
She hides in semi-seclusion rather
than portray herself benumbed.
Phobic fears of shedding her own
tears engulf her.
Precipitation is the clouds’ domain.
Poor moon, unfit to humanly commune,
displays a sentient side.
In a valiant effort to self-heal, she
briefly flashes her circumference,
then retreats to solo grief.
