Day 13: Dispatches from the Belly of Empire
Something Sonnet-ish

Thirteen
by Beth Weaver-Kreider

Call it lunacy or moon-ache,
it could be luck or witchery or grace,
this thirteenth day, this stitching
of seasons, this calendar counting, this
moon sailing round her beloved
thirteen times in a year, while the months,
her zodiac cousins, step neatly
in twelves. She’s just a little off-beat,
number thirteen—the moon, I mean—
and those drawn by her shine,
luna-tics longing, eye-wide owls
yearning to follow her, howling
along with the wolf and the dog,
finding her silver coins in every pool and bog.