The Lonely Moon Opera

The night I stop drinking, I knit a shawl for the moon, the color of space dust. After all, it is alone and pockmarked from acts of crashing. My mouth feels lonesome, and water and coffee don’t make me float like I am used to. I am on a new moon. I’d never thought of a gun on the moon, how it could propel you instead of exploding a family. Context is everything. Whiskey shots, shoot. The shawl is the size of Rhode Island after a year. My mouth isn’t thirsty for the haze anymore. I sing. My opera is called The Lonely Moon. I have my star. When I pray about sobriety on opening night, the moon cracks open and white mice fall out of it and into my hands. They are small, fragile, cold, and intelligent. A chorus of them sings hallelujah in the finale.