Ships sail past the dock as I look up and imagine

voyaging to the moon with only starlight to guide me.

I etch the sphere’s silhouette with my fingers and

imagine what the moon looks upon now ---

girls halfway around the work, basking in sun rays

or lovers in a cornfield paging romance with their bodies

as the earth welcomes night like a partner of its own.

The moon looks upon me as I feel all alone

at the seaside, where the beginnings of a snowstorm

coat my hair like confetti celebrating the stark silence,

and I remember my Greek teacher espousing the stories of Artemis

how a chastity goddess swelled each month like pregnancy

for all the mothers down below, and I imagine her

traveling through chariot to give the moon

to all us woman who deteriorate in the midnight ocean air

with only the memoirs of our pitfalls stored in our memories.

I remember our language teacher outlined

that lunatic comes from luna because a woman alone

becomes insane. We only indulge on honeysuckle and pineapple

growing sheathed in her light, and I listen to the Atlantic

with tides pulled by her anger and innocence, when I say

thank you to my mother for composing paeans to the crescent

thank you to my daughter for following the new moon and starting blank

thank you to the eclipse for encasing everyone in darkness like mine

I truly believe every last word like prophecy.