Moon sits in a greened copper chair,
with dime-wide binoculars glued to her sockets,
eyeing metal eagles on thermal sky.
The ones that claw her retina
while circling over fetal skulls and nursing mothers.
She holds a sickle bearing doll to her chest,
one with a raw nose and sperm whale teeth,
and nurses her bandaged breast with a halo and a hand.
from clavicle to rib, this yellowed sutcher wails.
To the baby she sings
with words choked in dust and neglect,
but the ballerina still twirls in rust,
and from her teeth releases the nipple.
Moon talks of Jupiter and Neptune.
Watches the sea and sky fight with devil chariots,
and to herself whispers a lie
“My baby, my baby, they kill for my baby.
She breaks its skull under rocks under water,
and the tide ribboned child empties its brain of blood.
