The Moon Has Nothing to Be Sad About: A Golden Shovel

She shields herself within the
armature of a hashtag, this every-woman,
bristling with indignation. Her soul is
hidden, even as her story pings to myriad in-boxes, click-bait perfected
like ganache, a drizzling of affronts, a surge of rage. Her
eyes smolder like lamps seen through smutted panes, dead
flies and finger-smudges dimming her current. Even so, her body
winks on and off, on and off. It wears
bruises we match our fingers to, relieved when the
purpled grip doesn't fit. We've been warned her smile
will elude all who demand it. When we catch a glimpse of
its sidle, we count it our greatest accomplishment.