Moon Wishes
By Sandra Frye
 

Sister points

at the night sky:

a palomino pony

that smells of

jasmine, a blonde 

boy to hold tight.

I—my brain

filled with calico,

words I don’t know

yet pirouette 

into the honeyed

scent of slant rhymes.

We have deserted our

pink-gingham bedroom,

a carved-out tomb

without light, all dust

and gloom; we’re out

under the full moon.

Mother cracks

open her window

blows woody warm

cigarette smoke,

leans to see it swirl,

curl, through rusted

burnt-orange screens;

empties her lungs

into night, asks moon

to bring back her girls

wants them to return

not like rebels but 

Quietly! like sweet

little birds.