On this night the moon, dressed in shadow robes
comes to lie with Hou Yi.
She reminds him how he saved the earth,
nocked his arrow in its bow,
then straight into the corona of eight of the nine suns
until all but one was bled of heat.
She cries how sorry she is for opening the box
where he kept the seed of immortality,
swallowed it before he could share it with her,
which left her in her cold lunar bed.
She brings him moon cakes
brimmed with lotus sweetness,
chrysanthemum tea, a poem,
scorched by the heat of eight suns.
Photo courtesy of Peter Moore