It woke me at midnight. It's looking at me
from the other side of the dark window.
Who drummed it up? It touches everything,
the photographs on the far wall, the chair
that rocked me on my grandmother's lap,
this bed in its summer whites. It's quiet,
stealthy. If I sit still long enough,
I can see it move. But the light in this room
does not move. This light is a thin and silent
blanket, like a dry mist, it silvers the dog's paws,
twitching with dreams. What does she dream?
Does she hear the drumming? Run, run
little dog. Catch that hare, take its throat
in your domesticated teeth.
The moon is thinking about wildfire, it dreams
of rain. Does it remember the sound, the shudder,
of its many wounds? The moon is bruised with time.
The moon pulls at my loosening flesh. It reminds me
of my own pulse, my own blood, my own dryness.
It conjures bolts of fire, it sets the mountains aflame.
Lightening, this moon. Yes. Lightening.
--
~ SB | http://www.sbpoet.com |
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