Maybe the Man in the Moon is Real

by Morgan Acord

Mom always told me about the Man in the Moon
how the cat jumps over him, though I didn’t know these peculiarities until she held his hand.

Some nights, my cat yanks my ear and leads me further,
into my grandma’s parlor, the hum of the evening news.
Sitting, dozing off on plush carpet,
barely knee high to the arm of the sofa.

Fog outside of the windows,
an external curtain alarms me,
But your light leading, coming down,
the stairs, comforts me

I yearn in the darkness where I know
there are plastic angels, music boxes of Gibson Girls,

The Miller High Life Girl smooths your hair

I shiver in the lonely cold,
but I feel you lift me,
carry me up the stairs,

I nuzzle into your breasts, they smell of powdered lavender,
like the wallpaper climbing up, up, up,
the crescent moon smiling at me,
Old moving picture actresses twirl and blow us kisses with their petite cherry lips.

You lay with me in a day night bed,
stroke my tiny face, that you said graced you with sunshine at noon in mid-August.

“Come,” you say
and the sinking joy I feel, as you slip away and I wake.