by Abby Meyer

To the driver that nearly hit me
the day the clouds

pasted themselves over
the super blue blood moon:

I was always afraid
of being you. Jumped

into a snowbank just to
save you from it.

That day, someone
had stolen the moon away.

Robber-like, I had welded
into shadows, made

myself into silver; a gift.
Something fragile, gone.

White-kneed, your lights
carved an arc around me:

untouched, like a virgin,
in the almost-moonlight.