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.