Harvest Moon

By Laura Epling

Way out there,
on the other side of having hair
and priorities straight and owning a denim
jacket is the woman I could fake
if I could just stand tall and act like it.
So I bought some lipstick the other day.
It was vegan and ten dollars and, hey,
it felt good to be on the right track until
I chapped the skin of insecurities masked
and turned my lips red without even opening the
package.
I looked in the mirror at the wreckage
and saw a young girl of seven, staring.
I asked her if she recognized me, if
she liked what I was wearing.
She said she saw my devices clearly
and preferred the honest eyes to what
I deemed sexy, and all she wanted of
me was the harvest moon she’d waited
three lifetimes to see.
I opened my eyes
and she saw it through me,
way out there,
on the other side.