Submitted by Cynthia Pitman
The moon does not “hang” in the sky,
as the poets like to say.
It charges hard through the dark,
shining its light on all our secrets,
making the wild wolves howl in envy
of its reach and its might.
It pushes through the sky,
tied to its minion in thrall, the earth,
looping around and around,
a whirligig spun by gravity and ferocity.
Nowhere is there a sphere more dangerous.
Lovers sigh, and think it a silent partner,
a fellow conspirator in their love,
one whose halo glows around their passion.
But it is not.
It is a cold, hard, dark rock
that threatens to force itself free
from the frigid grip of gravity
and spiral down to the ground
to crush their hearts
before break of day comes
and they crush one another’s.
About the Poet
Cynthia Pitman has had poetry published in Literary Yard and Right Hand Pointing. The title of the RHP issue,The White Room, was from her poem, and the artwork was designed around it. She has poetry forthcoming inAmethyst Review and Postcard Poems and Prose, and a short story forthcoming in Saw Palm: Florida Literature and Art.