by Raphael Moser
Three incarnations, each separated by a year. The youngest, cried least and acted most. Finding the right time, inventing the right medium. The oldest, caught up in a loop, resisted most calls to a future chastened by memory. The middle, a hybrid, sought long hours critiquing the self, and pried free from soliloquy in self–imposed structures. One prior night, when the moon fell out, face to face with the beginning of the notion, that it was time to leave, she held in her hand, an image, as if she had never left. The day crept interminably. The evening stained on. Only the very early morning held on.