The Moon is a Harsh Mistress
Is a virus self-aware? Nyet. How about oyster? I doubt it. A cat? Almost certainly. —Robert Heinlein
She is a full milk carton with no new listings
children gone missing—her beloved
felines having faded into a chill
predawn on tiny fog feet.
The moon doesn’t scour the streets trilling her child’s name
flood the streets with flyers
call the neighbors
offer a reward for a return.
She waxes laconic remits muted light
sparkling into shadows beams sent
under upturned lawn furniture radiates
through the thick thick ivy
broods. Where is her little lost one?