By Eric Pankey
The moon is a midwife, who delivers a bundle of salt.
The moon sheds a spring-fed light, white as the limestone in Galena, Illinois.
The moon is a knuckle gashed to the bone.
The moon rescinds its blessing, rests its forehead on a crosier of walrus ivory.
The moon is magnetite, a precipitate of iron and oxygen.
The moon is a june-bug larva.
The moon snags the train of its wedding dress in the blackberry brambles.
The moon is the underbelly of a mole: lame, hobbled, all maw.
The moon inhales the cloy of opium, exhales gypsum dust.
The moon is a geode, a glacial erratic, a sinkhole.
The moon is a window opaque with reflection.
The moon, fluent in every tongue, remains mum.
