Poetry from a Maxine Rose Munro

Took the moon 

I reached out and took the moon
in my hand. I know others think
she’s still there in the blueblack
sky lighting the world like always,
but they’re wrong. I keep shut
my fist, fingers cage to a celestial
body. Bones shadow skin bursting
with moonlight and I’ve taken to
wearing mittens. I thought I could
hold her, just for a minute, set her
free, but my hand clenched around
shine too tight to let go and here
we are, each trapped by the other.
She’d leave if she could of course.
This predicament secretly pleases
me, and after all the moon bears
no grudges. Or so I’ve heard. I’ll take
her home with me to gleam in
my room, sprinkle light over bed
and books, cupboards and coffee
cups. I think we’ll be very happy,
the moon and me, I think. Now
that I am her. Now that she is we.

Dead eyes 

I watched a spider eat a moth today.
A small brown thing, the moth, caught
in threads hung upon a hedge. 

Slightly fatter, the spider, brown too,
took it, spun it, bit it. I imagined
the moth’s eyes were filled with panic,
but how am I to know how true that was?

It was ten in the morning.
Come three mid-afternoon, the moth
was a shrunken, empty husk. 

Though its eyes, somehow, still held panic.


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