Shade swallowed the moon tonight, she’s drained
like a tipped cup, her ravening thirst
keens the air—if I had salt

I'd throw it over my shoulder. Being someone's child
is salt on blisters but soon or late
we sit down at the orphans' table,
grasp that shaker, know it passes next

to our own children, though we fire up
stars and street lights—read the fine print:
oceans, weather, women pour themselves
into the moon, still she thirsts across the nightsky,

drinks up all our tears,
swells with bloat.