on the dangers of pointing at the moon

there was once a woman
who so much loved the moon
that she sat night after night
on the empty floor
of her empty house
and looked through her box
of souvenirs
there they were
laid out
her husband's index finger
her mother's index finger
her lover's index finger
her father's index finger
her brother's index finger
her daughter's index finger
and the finger of some woman
she'd met on the metro
that one night
in 1983
severed
yellowed nails
grey
dead
flesh
she held them up
one by one
laid them down
one by one
muttering
whispering
something
if you had come closer
you might have caught
a wisp of an echo
(what happened? what happened? what happened?)

through a chink in the curtain
the light of the moon
fell on her neck
on her hair
on the forehead
that she never once tilted up