Phases

New moon

Every thumbnail reminds me
to tuck coins into my pockets.
The window rattles when
the meter maid rides by.

*

Waxing gibbous

On Tuesday, mail arrives
from the colony— each page
soaked with the smell
of fog and bitter melon.

*

Full moon

After we drank the tea down to the dregs,
the gypsy read our fortunes. I want to know,
Where did she learn to tell the shape
of death from that of pillows?

*

Waning crescent

The meadow was ablaze
with firefly light. I knelt
in the garden, practicing
for certain grief.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Face to face.

Leave a Reply