She Was Day Once

I met night on a subway train

moving east from 42nd, searching
for a lost coin underneath the plastic
seats. She was wrapped in sheets
and fur skin coats, discarded
scraps of blue jeans.

Her eyes were white like star blood
and she whispered galaxy lullabies
saying Orion had left her
in the half hour folds around midnight.

She is a single mother of the moon.

The Milky Way was strung
on the shrunken skin of her left wrist,
clanging against the rings of Saturn
and reflecting Pluto’s blue against her bones.

“There’s no wealth for the night,”
she said, gritty fingernails
scraping against graffiti floor,
“There’s no money for the stars.”