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Postmodern Village
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Is the Sun Smaller Than the Moon?
by Francine DuBois

To all the girls I've loved before, but not anymore

I was crushed in fourth grade
When I learned the moon didn't have its own luminosity,
But that the light really came from the sun.

It made Diana a fool,
A piece of glitter needing a light source,
A piece of foil left behind by careless campers.

Until that point, I had wanted to be the moon,
Surrounded by sparkly shimmers of light,
A silent presence through the darkness.

It was hard to sleep that night, knowing the sun was still there,
Only a mirror image perhaps, like those awful convex silver circles
In the corners of the ceiling at 7-11. The moon was no longer
A confidant, but a snotty tattletale . . . and I could never trust women again.

Francine's Version -- Hezekiah's Version -- Inspiration
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