The Moon’s Deep Wounds

When the soothing daylight

became absorbed

by the dim-colored distance

and the moon’s beak

like a horde of splinters

hit with a thud against earth,

night fell with a rumble

that made no noise.

Then the abrupt moonlight

got caught in your dark hair

and the early evening air

untangled autumn’s roots,

its twilight, its temple of leaves.

I watched you pull closer to yourself,

shaking like a thin spidery web.

You said: ‘Maybe life is an invalid

or a guide gone astray and inside each

circle of breath there is a path of light

that winds around

and comes back to us … and … maybe …

(pause to shiver)

on the day that we are going to die the veil lifts

and we know exactly what it is that we need

and when we turn back to reach for it we fade away.’

Suddenly your gaze was that of a wolf,

calm and transfixed, unaware

of its divine ripeness and only aware

of its physical hunger.

You asked, rhetorically: ‘If love is the master key

to the cosmic equation then why do lovers

become disjointed like worn out nets?’

Looking out over the wooded valley

where gray light feeds on the wilderness,

a jovial wind makes the leaves laugh and blur

and peel from the trees like orange embers

fleeing a fire.

In the dark stubble of the forest

the distance wavered, then disappeared.

The day was gone.

You continued: ‘The bane of our existence

is cold sweat within the icy throes of sinister dreams.

There is too much drizzle, too much clutter.

Then nothing, nothing at all.’

We heard voices coming from along the river,

children’s delicate voices, gentle laughter,

happiness the color of autumn, a crackling fire.

White smoke rose from the valley’s black shroud, rose

like ghostly medicine over the moon’s deep wounds

and the wind shifted to a steady chilled motion.

You shuddered in silence.

Overhead, the noisy geese made their escape

and every leaf was shaking.

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from my fourth book: 'The Translator'

©dah 2014 "The Moon’s Deep Wounds"
was first published in 'Lost Cost Review'