The Moon Prophecy

For years, our Moon spins away
from us in inches, as if to slip
out of orbit, unnoticed. We
can’t have that— who would
we blame for our midnight
cravings and bloody rags?
So the white coats in their labs
create the longest hook
reaching from Earth to Moon.
They splice new materials.
Pxumonia: soft lavender but sturdy
cousin of rubber that bends
through dust and gas. Konilium:
dark-matter metal that endures
flurries of debris and exhales eternally
as space itself. The puncture
we intend to be minimal, but Moon
cracks more, the closer it’s pulled.

On the open ocean, Moon’s
cracked carcass floats. Humpbacks
bump knobby heads on wet lunar
shells. The whales’ gusts of mist,
muffled to a hiss. Moon shards
burrow into blowholes and blubber.
The crash churns out tsunamis
across continents. Some humans
stop drinking and join Sun cults.
Others drink more to max out
the truncated, dizzy spin of days.
Silver light missing, corals sway
in limbo—their mass spawns
postponed. Discouraged, doodlebugs
dig shallow graves for their dwindling
prey, while deer teeter through forests
where nothing falls
on firs like tinsel.