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by Rhina P. Espaillat
From The Shadow I Dress In, by Rhina P. Espaillat; David
Robert Books, 2004;
Dowdy old moon pocked by the dust of stars,
take off your silver shoes, your satin gown,
come home from half-lit bars
and settle down.
Those arty types who versed your distant snow
and hankered for your full and virgin breast
were silenced long ago
and laid to rest.
The terse technician, padded astronaut
now lumber into line to take their place,
and NASA's prose has caught
your truest face.
Pawed by that rusty module, how be pure?
Forget the huntress bit, the goddess fuss;
learn to be less, endure,
grow old, like us.
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