Two Moons

              Whatever it was I wanted then, I wanted
fast—too long, couldn't wait, too much desire
                          chalking signposts at every turn.
Those many years ago, not yet
               belonging and not yet leaving,
I touched the surfaces of things,
                           like each was a revelation.
And it was. Water in a tin drum, reflecting
               a face that floated free of rust and
verdigris. All the other little bits, leaf, twig,
                           wire, insect wings held by a buoyant
tension. I cracked an egg on the rim of a bowl
                but did not know yet how to separate
liquid from gold. Ripening fruit bruised
                           under my touch. My hands were clumsy,
my mouth full of hunger; my body, younger,
                unaware of borrowed light or danger. I took
no counsel that I didn't first pass through
                            my teeth. The moon rose, bald 
and unprophetic above the alley where 
                we lived. Does it remember me
and how badly I wished to be borne
                             into a moment no one could deny
was mine? Sometimes there is no moon
                 in the sky, except its absence. New
moon, harvest moon. Now we have news of
                             a second moon, like a quarter
traveling for a while in some loose
                  pocket. I want my ordinary days
to still feel chosen, for me to feel
                             their weight as if the gravity of my life
were tied to a force equal to or greater in magnitude.