Supermoon

The Moon is In Labor

At least she’s pretending to be,
in sisterly solidarity.
It’s not a joke, but the whole
world’s taking it badly. Meanwhile
I sit here pretending to be a flame 
in a thrown bottle. I pretend
that curved horns grow out of my ears 
when I hear of injustices. And 
meanwhile like the faint cigar 
lights of the darkened 
lounges where world leaders 
fraternize, the moon’s light glows
then fades. Her labor proves to be, 
well, laborious. Mine was too,
although this poem burst forth 
from my brain like a boot
or a god: furious.


The Moon is In Labor,  by Gail Wronsky