Scimitar moon, with light of
cold polished silver
rides the sky in her
She’s be easy to catch, the gods
say, but for her sharp points.
For a while, being pursued
amuses her, a change from
her role as huntress.
But then she feels sorry
for them. She and her god
Ra chose each other eons ago.
Ra, the powerful god of daylight–
and she, who absorbs his light
and throws it back to him in
pretend pique; looses a special
arrow. Unlike Cupid’s, hers don’t
exactly mean love–but almost.
Ra takes her challenge; they play
peek-a-boo; he tames her, the part
they both like best, unchaste as it is.
As always after such play, her
sharp scimitar shape softens,
rounds out, takes on weight.
She is her most compelling just
before she gives birth.
The perfect roundness of the
belly she carries proudly has
fascinated and hypnotized
learned and ignorant men both.
Birthing, her divine light falls
from her like gossamer lace–
a wedding veil–through which
night is sensed but not clearly
seen, and her milky light trembles
on surfaces of water.
She’s radiant while giving birth.
Her trademark white glow has the
sheen of a pearl. Perhaps a touch
of Ra’s gold–or perhaps not.
When it ends, lucky mother moon starts
immediately to loose her baby weight.
Rebecca A. Logue