The girl climbs to the crown of the oak tree
and shoots arrows at the moon. Her tiny nipples
swell with excitement. She wants to pull
the moon close to her, to touch it.
Her missiles curve down, silver splinters
shimmering in the earth.
On moonless nights she runs,
howling with the wild dogs.
The moon rises and sets. Rises and sets.
The earth turns.
The woman tucks her lips around her teeth,
tucks blankets around her children,
closes the window to shut out the moon.
Her breasts are full of wine
she is drunk with love.
No one will steal her children.
Slivers of silver slip into the room,
dusting the broken bow,
filling the empty quiver, kissing
the children. Under the bed a spaniel pants
and suckles her litter.
The moon rises and sets. Rises and sets.
The earth turns.
The crone strings the bow. Slips silver
arrows under her granddaughter’s pillow
and flies out the window.
Her breasts hug her body like empty wine skins.
She blesses the dogs, barks at the trees.
When she reaches the rim of the world she jumps
and catches the horn of the new moon.
The moon rises and sets. Rises and sets.
The earth turns.
