Who is the Moon
Who is the Moon
Maybe you’re wrong, my ladies,
maybe you shouldn’t be so wholly right.
And is she always female,
the moon, a silver spoon,
the milk face, the new, the full,
even the medial maze
whose spice cakes I’ve tasted,
who is as desirable, more sensual,
then when she didn’t know that she knew.
You’ve recently come down, dogmatically bent
with a kind of pronouncement saying
the lunar month solely belongs
to some sort of superwoman
in rut, out of rut, on her way to wise.
You bet I freely admit how
seeing her through the poplar tree,
through bare branches
of the slender, sky bent poplar tree in winter,
or when she washes her skin in the spring,
even when she’s as heavy, as pendulous
as a brahma cow whose water weight
is such a close sleight
of what waits inside the grove,
well there’s no question but that
she’s wholly feminine then,
and I’ve almost forgotten
she’s as much an idea,
a cupped aching, a notion in motion
a summerland desire as she is a woman.
But you see, and I say this
earth-tied, humbled by
there are those sons leaning out of her,
her crescent born, wild eyed ones,
her white wolves, tree lore men
who’ve walked the ways with her,
watched her stray, waited like
an unstrung mother while you rest.
And, yes, you who know the reason why
she waxes, basks, barks inside you.
Is she feminine,
a larger-than-life womankin,
is she always female?
or are there men in those moons,
like lakes, like loons?
Maybe you’re right after all.
It could just be the first gypsy inside
who sees through her white sleeve
the mother, the lover, the fateful girl;
but also the body brother,
the quantum son of light,
the particle matrix strung up, together
in her earth flood of night.
Last edited by Terreson, Nov/19/2020, 2:10 am
Nov/19/2020, 2:03 am
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