Black Moons
The ground weeps with smoke and falls like a nation.
Topped with ash and cinders of their feet, chest and nails,
the ground cries out as she is pinched and scratched and told she looks beautiful with a lens.
Black moons rise out of this cascading greed and are too, created and owned like the ground.
No one can feel her pain or grips on their ivory ankles, they dine and dive away as she holds them up.
The black moons tell them to look down, but that is too far for the purple marble eyes, too hot and burnt.
“Only say you'll be mine” she croaks and gags with one finger pointing to them.
But they are swimming in turquoise lagoons and waterfalls, her tears fuel their class.
By the book of man and God she is bound as a slave, deservedly so. Both books disgrace her.
In the corner of their eyes, beyond the baubles and gemstones, the black moons look down.
Rooted in the universal cup, the black moons watch her drown and cry and they look both up and down.
Forward runs to them with daggers and drills and behind pleads with brown eyes, not purple.
They begin to cry.
They begin to dry off.
She is dead.
They sit and wait.
But the black moons look on, their creator is dead to them. The black moons are alone.
Copyright © Joseph Cousins | Year Posted 2017
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