LEAH MOONEY

Snow Moon

Tonight, breaking shells
from boiled eggs, my thumbs
are red-tender.
Beyond this kitchen window
the moon fills with blood,
grows heavy like a plum
as it falls. It is no longer a
moon, though that is the
closest name left.
All we have are names. Moon,
snow, egg. I say thumb,
but when I hold it in the light,
what I am saying to you
is see how tender I have become?
Even the eggshells
undo me.