A blood-red moon
hangs low in the sky,
too late to be a harbinger,
because our doom is already here.

It’s a strawberry moon,
they say.
For the early harvest,
they tell me.

But this country will harvest
what it wants,
and how,
and when it pleases,
I think.
The moon has no say.

Do we?

Tell her what you think of her,
this country bathed in blood.

Pen to page is fine —
good, even, 
or at the very least historical,
if not cliche —
for conversing with a blood-red moon.

But some things are mightier than the pen.
And maybe we should be doing those instead.