Defiant

Sara Moore Wagner

Because Milton described the shield of Satan
like the moon through a telescope,
it lunatics me. I can’t help but watch
it, blinds up, how the moon is a shield,
hangs before the Universe to keep
the Lord out. How many orbs can I hang
over my own door to keep that eye
of God out of the lamp, out of the blinking
light on the electric toothbrush that I can
still see, even with the door closed. Next day,
the scattered leaves, the pulled ocean,
the constant nickering and neighing
of the horses in every barn, the drowning
tulips, the deluge—pasture worn, will
carry me back to the church where
my mother thinks I belong. Will write
me into a song about a girl at a window,
winding her golden hair into the smallest
parapet and behind it, she’s sleeping, she’s
not worried about the light or dark,
she’s running her tongue over her clean
teeth, she’s plucked out all the machinery.
She is alone. Abject. Tomorrow, I’ll
dance in the lush field as if there
were nothing behind the sky at all
but stars. Still, perhaps the rain will carry me back
to the pews, knuckle worn and splintered
to sit before the Easter lilies white as a choir
robe, white as the spots you get when
looking at the sun, which has never
been any sort of protection.