These days when it’s cloudy, the sky is a series of hammered pewter links tethered to my heart, straining it out of my chest. I need to clasp with both hands so the muscular pump won’t yank free & fly, riding the air current or bouncing off the high points of fences, trees. So it won’t drag, red, on the ground, catch on underbrush or trimmed hedges, and tear itself to pieces.
Blood moon was mottled by cloud that September night, hide & seeking at first behind curvy wisps, then obscured by thicker banks. Propped against metal bleachers in the school playing-field, we craned skyward, watching for glimpses. It was never red but clot-hearted, shades of brick or rust; old blood not fresh blood. Frances Boyle