Lunanite

Moon weeps through a mare, the roses of her angry birth
flowed like beaming wine and so slit her rind,
her regolith grey poison.

Now, I know her eyes, sunken in by speeding thumbs.
Luna and her lunanite still cry, from all the beatings
and flaming guns.

Moon fights and sobs, for she is not our mother
but rather is the child of Earth, and was ripped from her.

Look up at her, cold Moon,
in the maria she mouths the hymns with chalky lips.
The dark houses her, the earth still slings her, in the Sun’s gaze

she folds in and out.