Harvest Moon

Way out there,

on the other side of having hair

and priorities straight and owning a denim

jacket is the woman I could fake

if I could just stand tall and act like it.

So I bought some lipstick the other day.

It was vegan and ten dollars and, hey,

it felt good to be on the right track until

I chapped the skin of insecurities masked

and turned my lips red without even opening the

package.

I looked in the mirror at the wreckage

and saw a young girl of seven, staring.

I asked her if she recognized me, if

she liked what I was wearing.

She said she saw my devices clearly

and preferred the honest eyes to what

I deemed sexy, and all she wanted of

me was the harvest moon she’d waited

three lifetimes to see.

I opened my eyes

and she saw it through me,

way out there,

on the other side.

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