Moon Rocks Poem by Armadillo Poet

My mother, in a vitrine
Of infinite Babushka dolls,
Keeps a piece of the Berlin wall.

It didn't make sense
To the child of a masculine mind,
As a pebble can't resemble its whole.

And similarly,
To regard at a museum
Dust from the moon,
Is to imply that she is made
Of atoms.

But anyone who first looks at her face
Can see she has just two dimensions:
Round, and far away.

It is only in the careful watching
And recording of a subject
That such a mind learns also
That there is a smallest doll,
And an entire forgotten history,
In counting them.

And all this from seeing her face
Hide behind phases of shadow.