A fortnight between lunar to solar,
the moon leading the charge, ironically,
since she, stoic, obedient, seemingly lifeless,
bleeds light from her partner’s ebullience.
Rarely do they two-step, lunar, solar, lunar,
except for now, in this epic moment.
Each semester, the six months’ separation of moon
to sun, lunar to solar, a new batch of eager students arrive,
like mouth-bitten peaches and blood oranges, the
sun, moon, and stars, embarrassed by the shady passing,
imperfect spheres of silent angst, expressionless moons,
and blistering gas balls of energetic suns,
and sit in scruffy rows among creaking computer carousels.
But today, as the moon leapfrogs the sun,
sobering the gleeful optimism of a new beginning,
anticipating the new school year, in the season of death,
stars falling from the sky landing in my cyber classroom.
This short summer of pandemic zooms, eclipse all
the twenty years of semesters spent in dusty classrooms,
pacing the moldy carpets in the institutional cement,
encasing the recycled dreams