The Man in the Moon flaunts
his freedom in his mostly intact tux: the bell
moon, a weight that cannot hold him,
the tightrope, a chain that also
does not bind. An audience watches
as always wild with applause at his brave
feats while he extracts black
silhouette women from the cage
of his mouth, how many caught like keys
under his glib tongue,
behind the bars of his teeth a mystery. They
hang clipped to his rope like clothes in the wind
while they contemplate,
dangling, their own no-less daunting
escape. Make no mistake. They are the white
moon's dark eyes. Look at their hands
which hold the pen, the brush, the magic
wand sticks. When they bring their
sisters to safety, they will drop, fly,
leap from his line. Write their
own history. Title themselves.
It's not the (so-called) Magician
who interests me, but the mother,
the wife, who taught moon & manacle,
key keeping, sharp-edged juggling. Stage
mangaged her tail off. Sewed his shorts.
Think how many of them tip-toed
around to get one show off.