mother round as the moon
let me love myself
let me escape the beating
wings of womb bloodless
let me dance with white moths
mother where is your sympathy
tell me. i am clawing my way out
through sheer force of will
clawing blood clawing
placenta mother let me
as the moon is constant
love and death only variables mother
let me out
The moon gleams in dolorous waves,
lulling the sea to sleep in the still muted
tide of night. Everything is quiet, slipping
into darkness, stupefied by dreams. Everything
spilling towards daybreak. Hush, hush. Listen
to the murmur of mice in their midnight beds,
the berceuse of night-blooming flowers, craning
towards the celestial. Listen to the hymns of
dark woods, the siren song of the salt sea, rippling
lyrics of love to mermaids. Now the owl puts forth
his question, which is answered by shadow
and a kind of gravity made possible
only by starlight.
In my memory everything is flecked with gold,
even the moon and the breasts of the singing birds.
Only the white birches are immune, and the black clouds
that drift over the moon, then assimilate into night.
When I feel lonely I like to come here. When I cannot
sleep the moon draws me into her distended embrace.
Moon, mother. Tell me what you have witnessed here or
elsewhere. Tell me where it hurts. Tell me, what should I do.
I have been wandering for many moons.
The corridors of my dreams are dark and lonely.
Of the two birches kissing between the water, I cannot
tell which is the reflection, for both are flecked
moonlight floods the world
stars gleam in night’s waters
like silver-scaled trout
tonight: the bluest of nights
moonlight on the orange groves
the moon, my friend
her half-smile wry and knowing
glowing where we trod
this afternoon, plucking oranges
our feet bone-white, pulverized
under the sun’s cruel glare
now the darkness heals us;
we grow old and anonymous
The moon is too early too eager too ambitious
to get a leg up, a planetary orbit up
on the happy rival: the sun
The blue-orange light with the orb half stuck in it –
It looks ridiculous,
Why can’t things let other things be?
Why this need – always – for superimposition,
for competition, for greedy knowledge, for pretension?
I should have looked away long ago
Now I can only wander, a blind Tiresias
And the sun and the moon, laughing, mocking,
floating like disembodied heads