This is My Moon 

by BrierMae K Ossont



And not a woman with a double mastectomy 
come down with wild mouth, long arms, fluorescent nostrils. 

It isn’t a toenail ripped off and cherished, pearly on the altar, 
flecked with last week’s hot red nail polish. 

It isn’t a porcelain bathtub where mother gets to rest late 
in the morning with dim cucumbers on her eyes. 

It isn’t a fleck of spit on the counter next to the cherry pits 
and spinning woody stems. 

It isn’t a nurse walking white in the hallway, descended 
to put cold hands on the stethoscope. 

It isn’t cold cream across the forehead 
of a woman with both breasts. 

This is my moon, bald light on other things.


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