Moon Mother
Kat Scott

Her thumb gouges deep as the night
unfolds. Lifting
to pour sticky jam in divots,
tart and overwhelming.
 
As she looms
heavy and round,
pregnant with disappointment.
 
With a face, so faithfully dusted
concealing acne craters,
the voice of  mother
through still air
 
reminds you to floss.
Then, from rocky silence,
regards your new lover,
taking notes.

So then,
what is the name your pillow calls?
Perhaps your father’s 

already half-full  
the moniker, a mould.
Asking, is the door unlocked
do the birds have covers?

Until a horizon, pink with sleep
is duly impressed
with her pale pale thumbprint.
She accedes 
 
and
we arrive.

- 24 -