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Blue Moon


by Deborah Oster Pannell


I suppose it was inevitable,

This crashing of souls,

This recognition

of possibility to create.

If we were younger,

We would make a baby,

The ultimate act of faith.

Now it has to be something else,

Nothing to force a track 

with night feedings,

report cards, 

button up your sweater and eat your spinach…

I sense an alignment of stars brought this on,

A wiping clean of all fictions,

And I am licking my own face

Searching for traces of you.

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