Today's poem is by Deborah Bogen

Transubstantiation 2
       

By the time I was ten I could see it myself.
The moon's game. How it could be an aspirin,
or a clock, or a porcelain plate in the sky.
The moon could be a bottle cap or a petri
dish. On cold nights it blinked itself into
a shiny dime.

I thought that meant that I could change too
—but only secretly. Because this was
Montana. This was 1959. No one would believe
me if I told them the voodoo moon was
hijacking manhole covers and imitating
headlights. This became my greatest childhood
secret and when my father drove us home at
night the moon came too, disguised as the
glowing green dial on the dash.

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Copyright © 2023 Deborah Bogen All rights reserved
from "Speak Now This Charm
Jacar Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission