Hannah Matzecki

Moon, she says pointing

first from a scratched city sidewalk and then later

through a close-curtained bedroom window

her little hand aching for the sky

Moon, she insists though it’s light out

without clouds to cover the shine

I can’t, I try to tell her

a betrayal I buckle beneath—

she doesn’t know it’s a thimble

lost from a thumb long ago

kept clasped inside a stranger’s sewing box

made from iron-scented soot

and glass ground fine

like shaker salt

that used to be a prophet’s wife

then searching

through dust

for her daughters

worried that

their willow arms

might shudder

in the cold

now thrown over slouching shoulders

now sprinkled on the lips of warped doorways

as a shield against long shadows

peering in—

Moon, she pleads with her eyes wide

not knowing that she deserves more.