Moon Gathering
And they will gather by the well,
its dark water a mirror to catch whatever
stars slide by in the slow precession of
the skies, the tilting dome of time,
over all, a light mist like a scrim,
and here and there some clouds
that will open at the last and let
the moon shine through; it will be
at the wheel's turning, when
three zeros stand like paw-prints
in the snow; it will be a crescent
moon, and it will shine up from
the dark water like a silver hook
without a fish--until, as we lean closer,
swimming up from the well, something
dark but glowing, animate, like live coals--
it is our own eyes staring up at us,
as the moon sets its hook;
and they, whose dim shapes are no more
than what we will become, take up
their long-handled dippers
of brass, and one by one, they catch
the moon in the cup-shaped bowls,
and they raise its floating light
to their lips, and with it, they drink back
our eyes, burning with desire to see
into the gullet of night: each one
dips and drinks, and dips, and drinks,
until there is only dark water,
until there is only the dark.
Eleanor Wilner
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Tides
A man on 26th Street sets moon flowers to start
in egg cartons on a table beside his bed.
Soon they will loop around the gray windows louvers
twining sweetness through his dreams.
Close your eyes, give way
and the sheets, yes, your skin,
are her skin and take the voice,
take your own hand with her voice guiding
and here are the flowers opening like time-lapse
photography--tendrils finding the small
pocks in the concrete, close now,
the moon of her face lifts between your thighs.
What is real? The man slapping potting soil
from his hands? A prediction of tides
from the lunar chart of water rings
the carton leaves on the table's wood finish?
And where is she? Whisper her name
and static answers, open the windows
and the silent trumpets of the flowers
dip and rise casually in the air.
Lisa Rhoades
