Moon at Half Past Noon

I. The Breaking

The horn’s blast split the world in two—
one half for before, one for after.
Yet when the pavement rose to claim her,
she laughed as the sky fractured.

(No scream. Just a breath held like a secret,
a hand still outstretched, still reaching—
as if to cradle the impact,
as if to bless the breaking.)

II. The Becoming

They wrote “lost” in her medical chart,
but she scribbled “found” in the margins.
Where others saw a missing piece,
she planted a garden of questions.

“What if the body is just a door?
What if the hinge is the heart?”
Each morning, she oiled the lock with wonder,
learning to walk with maps of the dark.

III. The Alchemy

Her spine, a compass needle now—
no longer pointing to why, but how.
How to carry a fire in one hand
and phantom weight in the other.

How to be half of what she was,
yet stitch the gaps with gold.
How to wear absence like a second skin,
and still stand taller than the mold.

IV. The Epilogue

The world counts in limbs and losses,
in scars and cells and seams.
But she? She whispers to the night:
“I am half of what I was—
yet more than who I used to be.”

And the stars,
having witnessed such arithmetic,
adjust their equations accordingly.
She’s the dawn. She’s the way.