I wish to see the man in the moon,
I never knew what it could ruin,
when men above hide from my eyes,
like Rorsarch blots I can’t disguise.
“We’ll tell the moon goodnight,” she said,
Her nightgown white beside the bed,
my words stick fast before I choke,
She cries. I leave. I never spoke.
“Our father,” starts the holy words,
Christmas Vigil barely heard,
I search in vain for sacred faces,
but like the man there are no traces.
“Hallowed be,” my mother glares,
I choke on words between the stares,
and out the window, climbing high,
the moon’s man starts to ossify.