Moon

In my world there was only the crescent moon, the kind of delicate
Ceramic, dainty throne of clavicle, pale rim of plates type.
It did not grow full because she was not greedy, because
She has the two of us, not feeble distant stars but the oceans
Tugging at her sleeves. We call, and she answered. We call

And she answers. We call, and the crescent smiled back shyly
Through the gap between hem and waistline. Then, she smiled
Through sweat and puts one down to pick up the other (this time me).
Because the two silver oceans kept her busy as the fishes surfaced to
Wail into the night, she could not wax and wane, and we prayed to the
Only god we knew, the sliver from above.

Of course these truths only make sense now that I am older, the way
Science only makes sense now. The fishes learnt to fly, and
Soon, we were overlooking her. Still we tug at her, and she orbits about
Our darkness and our brights. The crescent hangs like a pendant,
Lovelier in the spot of the wedding ring box, pulsing with new life,
Happily feminine.