like a raven
a thin black cloud
stretched its wings
over the face
of the bright moon
the other night
and flew away

my mother was in her forties
and expecting.
she ate moon pies every evening after work.
boxes of moon pies
huddled in the pantry
one dozen per box.
there was
vanilla,
chocolate,
banana,
and pink strawberry.
she gave birth in June
and the last box of
cellophane-wrapped
moon-shaped
marshmallow-and-cookie confections
remained forgotten on the shelf
a very long time.