Luna

by Heather Myers

Luna hangs like a stranger
passing through, alone and weary,
like she is carrying information
or is avoiding being caught.
She signals to the feral creatures,
to humans with an appetite for the night.
Men are driven mad by her glow.
They stumble out, drunk and swinging.
They neck women in the alleys.
They murder women
of the night, like her,
who hold her up, sing to her,
love her poxed face, and love the milky
And thin light leaking from her holes.
They wait for her to leave, only to pass
again through her magic moon-dust
bleaching the earth, striking dark corners
where lovers quarrel, intoxicated,
and make love between the trees.
All the while she hangs in the stagnant night
like a broken nail or a corroded quarter,
and smirks at those who join her.