Blood Moon

by Ralph Monday

This moon, orbiting like the cataract
in a blind man’s eye—russet, coppery,
lensed female oldness—id dreams where
the universe becomes movie myth, no
matter the player’s scene, urban, rural,
all hear the night owl calling above on
experienced wings, for it knows the blood
song played above like an asphalt aria.
In bars, hospital rooms, dance halls where
light mimics salvation—uneasiness
spreads like flu in a crowded elevator.
This moon is a lost Mayan codex that
no one can read, no television prophet
can explain. The apocalypse is not
bare rock knowing both savage heat and cold;
No, the old doom is filtered through each dark
pupil gazing at the sky’s stitched message.