La Luna
I. She is like the moon pacing the nights in phases, starting empty, invisible, incomplete, or nealy so, more like a shadow, the left over smudge from something written rubbed out by a cheap pencil eraser, or the darkness created when something large, like a boulder, stands in front of a light source; and then, slowly, being filled each night, a bowl, pale white, ghost-like, cracked through misuse, and set aside, outside to collect rainwater and the morning dew, until it is filled with deep, wet sorrow, sorrow, cold and bottomless, sorrow that clings to her skin like little pricks when she delves her hand in past the cold mirrored surface causing rippling, distorting everything reflected, or simmering irritation that