by Natasha Keary

It begins a comedy, a pocket-sized calamity,
as eye and lens turn to sky, and there,
fuzzed and haloed, sallow and pale,
the moon shrinks in its socket.

Slowly, slyly each night,
It wisps to cobwebs, fizzes to ash,
No longer the prize opal,
but a synapse in the empty sheath of stars.

And the spectacle turns sour,
As NASA project images across still seas:
a sphere of marbled blue and white,
draped in black, and very much alone.

And gradually, the word salutes,
it’s newly deceased companion,
with arrays of artificial, clammy oranges,
icy whites, each night,
that burn too small a hole, in the darkness.

A slow tragedy, as grandparents tell,
of the lantern that lit their nights,
of the mythical onion that shed,
slice by slice, skin by skin,
visibly and vulnerably,
into history.