Sara
 
Matriarch, good witch 
Her eyes hazel moons, 
gray curls spinning into my brown ones 
materializes.
 
She shelters me from deluge,
hands me feathered arrows on each visit,
feeds me crumbs of sanity 
‘til I can keep them down.
 
This is Sara:
not the mentor I pictured, ancient and grave in her desert, 
but laughing, buoyant, 
with her sorceress' intuition,
her measureless magic words.
 
Aboard her whaler,
we harpoon fears,
stretch our fingers across oceans
she, lodestar, burns bright. 
 
Inside her cabin
we summon fireflies, 
spell out wishes on the log walls, 
whisper.
 
This is therapy. 
This--not the hundred other times I've tried. 
 
There is no disconnect. 
She calls.
I follow. 
That's all.
 
I grow into her,  
twin hazel eyes like mirrors
spinning curls.
 
I feather my own arrows now, feed crumbs to other folk,
wield my own magic;
still I turn to her in wonder
apprentice glowing in her lightning
like the moon.

Luna Forming
 
I jolt around the room, 
interstellar dust—comet tails sparking up in every direction
The air is afire. 
I'm an asteroid belt
but you burn steady, slow.
your gravity gives me direction.
I condense, pivot around you like a carousel horse,
marveling all the while.
 
You regard my dusty surface—my craterous complexion, 
smooth me out. 
 
You remind me that moons inspire lore,
that the way I see myself--lifeless, pockmarked, grey—
bears no resemblance to Artemis, 
or to any ancient moon-myth, 
those hundred goddesses' nude forms, 
glowing in the twilight 
 
You kiss my round head, 
send me spinning. 
You give me my axis,
say, "Luna, you're enchanting
tonight"

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