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Late Moon

by
 2 a.
m.
December, and still no mon rising from the river.
My mother home from the beer garden stands before the open closet her hands still burning.
She smooths the fur collar, the scarf, opens the gloves crumpled like letters.
Nothing is lost she says to the darkness, nothing.
The moon finally above the town, The breathless stacks, the coal clumps, the quiet cars whitened at last.
Her small round hand whitens, the hand a stranger held and released while the Polish music wheezed.
I'm drunk, she says, and knows she's not.
In her chair undoing brassiere and garters she sighs and waits for the need to move.
The moon descends in a spasm of silver tearing the screen door, the eyes of fire drown in the still river, and she's herself.
The little jewels on cheek and chin darken and go out, and in darkness nothing falls staining her lap.

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