“My heart aches to-like-as the Moon’s,”
my mother used to say
What does a young child know of how the heart aches?
Was it the Moon’s yearning heart that drew in the tides
Like a bosom to which lovers were always clasped
in my mother’s books of romance?
Was the eclipse the fire in the eye of a woman
whose shy yearnings the sun ignored?
Do you see the stars twinkling and find
yourself envious
Unable to make your own light?

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