The Legacy of the Moon
By: Veerangana Praniti
bring me one quarter of the moon--
that pulsates on star-strangled skylines
that bears scars upon its cheeks,
yet does not wince, and most importantly
it does not rub barrels of fairness cream
upon its scars, to make them go away
for, it loves its scars
bring me one quarter of the moon--
that is washed upon the seashore,
and is generous--to break its being
like a mother, and puts bits of itself, extends itself
to fill the core of these shells, that hold
the songs of the sea, and the sigh of the sun
as it softly sinks into the sea
bring me one quarter of the moon--
that fireflies hold upon their wings
those translucent wings stamped with
incomplete, crescent-shaped wishes,
moistened with the dark, dusty shadows
of father’s footsteps, which have been molded
to the paradoxical boundaries of a soldier’s boots
limited--yet infinite
bring me one quarter of the moon
that lingers on the snowy papers
beneath a teenager’s slender fingers
as the world sifts through her trembling fingers
she draws a girl with bare breasts
with soft dreams on this girl’s lashes
yet on this girl’s fingers there is a crescent
that cuts into her fingertips, carving crevices and craters
that shall soon toughened into hard scars
and then I wonder--
are scars the legacy
of this moon?
that pulsates on star-strangled skylines
that bears scars upon its cheeks,
yet does not wince, and most importantly
it does not rub barrels of fairness cream
upon its scars, to make them go away
for, it loves its scars
bring me one quarter of the moon--
that is washed upon the seashore,
and is generous--to break its being
like a mother, and puts bits of itself, extends itself
to fill the core of these shells, that hold
the songs of the sea, and the sigh of the sun
as it softly sinks into the sea
bring me one quarter of the moon--
that fireflies hold upon their wings
those translucent wings stamped with
incomplete, crescent-shaped wishes,
moistened with the dark, dusty shadows
of father’s footsteps, which have been molded
to the paradoxical boundaries of a soldier’s boots
limited--yet infinite
bring me one quarter of the moon
that lingers on the snowy papers
beneath a teenager’s slender fingers
as the world sifts through her trembling fingers
she draws a girl with bare breasts
with soft dreams on this girl’s lashes
yet on this girl’s fingers there is a crescent
that cuts into her fingertips, carving crevices and craters
that shall soon toughened into hard scars
and then I wonder--
are scars the legacy
of this moon?
Writer's Statement: I am a sixteen-year-old girl, who aspires to become a full-time writer one day!