by Brett Rutherford
May 15, 2022
A slow cloak covers
the Moon’s face,
red in shame.
Black Earth occludes
the light of sun.
For one dark hour
Luna shudders,
the perfect circle
of the Murder Planet
blotting all light,
the creeping advent
of the Conqueror Worm.
If there were gods
they might smite
those proud armies,
those squint-eyed
assassins. But no,
the Murder Planet rolls
on its course. Moon,
Sun and Earth
resume their roles
amnesiac:
the bright Sun disk,
the silver, shining Moon,
the Earth still blessed
with vast blue seas.
This was not news,
not like a Trump hand
groping a Kardashian —
barely a selfie photo-op —
an incident of no import
(who even looked up
on their way home from pizza?) —
a datum of almanac,
a planned distraction
of the eve of elections.
No, not an omen,
not even that.
