No Prayer to the Moon in the Unborn Childs Room

In the nursery are small wooden boxes painted with green horses the colour of  leaves. I sit on a  soft  floor cushion
embroidered with rowan berry red twigs and petals, and stare vacantly at the pregnant full moon that is white with fear. If
only I could worship that moon that stares back at me afraid like an office clerk that files paper, as if it were precious specimens
behind glass, the boxed  corpes of lepidoptera.