And We Listened For Rain
The moon has no use for her. The moon is a billiard pie knocking numbers against sky’s frame. 1’s, 4’s, and double 8’s. Never enough to keep alive the grass seething below her feet. When Moon asks, where are you going? She says she must kindle a flame so great the world bursts into bits of burning song. Strips of bark whirling arpeggios of embers. Garden mouse brisking its throat against ash. Minnows erupting in sparks like suicide bombers as heat spirals around her beloved beast: horse on its death meadow, breathing its last patch of flowers. Blaze flickering in its eyes, fireflies blinking beyond the grim barn. She kneels in reverence as a mother’s warmth courses through her, blood as black as the feral forest. Above, a nightingale alights with a roar. The moon smiles. Moon has no use for her. Moon wants her. Desires to flatten the wrinkles creasing with sorrow, cradle the smoke caressing her cheeks. Is it not fitting, Moon thinks, amid chaos, loss. How beyond years they pray for a heartbeat. How they set homes afire yet groan for their darlings. How even in grief, they hear music.
