Politics

The sun doesn’t speak to the moon anymore,

whispering to its own light instead,

ensuing disarray as it remembers the strength in its flares.

 

The sun was once just as powerful. Deified.

Now

eclipsed.

 

Before the stars gave more notice to the emptiness

of the moon’s craters,

everything borrowed heat from sunspots.

 

The moon takes

until it’s new again.

 

“Waves crash harder this way,” says the moon but the sun continues to murmur:

“Bright”

“Lonely”

“Always”

“Spinning”

 

“Los-

ing”

“Fire”              “Can’t

stop.”

“won’t.

 

Estranging the sun wasn’t always this easy.

 

The moon knows there are stories here.

It waits for them to be told as if history preludes it.

As if the stories will change when spoken again.

As if the stories mattered.

 

“Come on, sun. We’re almost there.”

The moon listens for dusk; avoiding solar storms,

refusing to miss its mark.

They’ve tangled for lightyears but it has never been this close to home.

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