My mother doesn’t ask where I go at night,
when the moon is high and healthy.
She just asks that I put my clothes in a white vinegar bath when I arrive home.
Nothing is said about torn wallpaper,
and the entrails that trail along the carpet,
to my bedroom,
the scratches along the frame of the door where the lock used to be.
Nothing is said and the conversation is light and easy.
“What would you like for breakfast?”
“Do you need a lift to work?”
“Want some ice for your hands?”
without even trying,
because that’s what mothers do,
when their daughters are enslaved by the starving moon.
That’s what mothers do, when their daughters are damned by the jealous, relentless moon.