Your mother matriarch of the moon is headed eastbound
you wonder what you’ll do in her leave
when you’ve spent this long living in the hem of her sleeve
it’s hard to fathom your own character.
you wonder what music will dribble from your lips
when you’ve spent the past three years singing her praises.
Has it been cold? living in her long spindly shadow,
trailing behind her like a veil
have you ever found yourself resenting the child bride?
Or were you content, always at her bedside,
a small mahogany wooden table endowed with a crucifix and a room temperature glass of water.
Your shoulders must be so strong, holding up all her trinkets and her ego.
Your neck is worn and carpet burned from the pristine doilies she wrapped around you like a collar.
You think to rummage through your closet, and dig out the box you know you stowed away so long ago.
Inside your feathered wings folded and bent like origami.
Those who are second or third in command needn’t fly too close to the sun anyways.
Leave it to your black and white princess.
if your god is the mother matriarch of the moon but also the light that brings you home, like the sun-
what does that make you?
if she’s reserved the whole solar system, wearing Saturn’s rings around her fingers and is the hot topic of mars
what does that make you?
Pluto?
Pluto, don’t you yearn to fraternize with those you’ve been told are beneath you?
god does not wear a trench coat.
and you can like silly things
you can buy cheaper rings and mix metals as you please.
You can wear colors that don’t match
and you can take one day off reading Dostoevsky in exchange for the funnies in the Sunday paper.
no one will persecute you for reading Calvin and Hobbs.
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