And then there were the stories
Of babies born on the moon.
Growing like bean sprouts,
Long and frail,
With organs folding and kinking…
Their weak hearts gave out in a few short months
Leaving pale, pencil-thin bodies,
The size of teenagers.
We buried them in shallow graves
Where their waxen skin would
Conceal the cadavers in moon dust.
Knowing they would never decompose,
We just wanted them to disappear,
And hope time,
And the dull somnolence of this place,
Would somehow fade the memories
Of love's gruesome repercussion.
Within a few days, however,
The bodies would reemerge.
Easily dehydrated,
The low gravity and lack of moisture
Not able to contain them,
We would see them skirting around the surface,
When the sun came up,
Like dirt devils in the solar wind…
Yet another grim reminder
Of man's failure to live,
Beyond the protective canopy
Of Mother Earth…
