[wpaudio url=”/audio/december12/Shahid.mp3″ text=”listen to this poem” dl=”0″]
lashed out at the moon
“you are never haloed
when I am stressed!”

The moon grunted,
turned the t.v.
back on and fished
his hands in his pants.

The sky pretended to search for
cigarettes in the kitchen
but really, she hoped the crack of kitchen
drawers would ruffle
the cutlery loud enough to mask
the small resistance of tears
plotting a coo
against her.

Flat on her belly,
the youngest star watched her mother become wallpaper
from the safety of the staircase shadow,
while the older star listened in from the vent
tapping it all, morose code
in his bedroom.