Before that day and the other days,
Sylvia Plath placed a stone harbinger hand
to my ear:
“Where the waking head rubbishes out the draggled lot
of sulphurous dreamscapes and obscure lunar conundrums
Which seemed, when dreamed, to mean so profoundly much”
~~~
It was A Good Friday.
But at Four Thirteen in the morning
the Waning Gibbous Worm Moon cracked
through the window and sang to me.
I have been called the Goose Moon, the Eagle Moon, the Crow Comes Back Moon. Wake Up.
The Wind Strong Moon. Once sighted, I was named the Sore Eyes Moon.
The Spring Moon, the Donkey-Finder Moon, the Prophetic Moon
Wake Up!
Soon again will rise the sun.
This will be seen by no one.
And then later once more.
This will be seen by rich and poor.
But I will come
to take away the light.
I will dance before the sun,
blocking it from sight.
~~~
My older brothers and their younger wives will meet along The Path.
Wearing tested and approved protective glasses. Rose-colored, some.
Looking up and at one another,
they will smile at the absurdity of what they see.
I wore those same glasses once.
My family and another, parked at a park.
The clouds deprived us of everything but clouds.
I remember that day, but not fondly.
On this day, no opportunity to observe.
In the kitchen, I hold the Methuselan-Lime
up to block the light to imagine
what others may see.
Since Easter, a week, fever dreams and illness confuse my waking hours.
Dreams about fractions, counting, and categorization.
The vocabulary and symbols are unclear to me.
The coughing, however, remains its own category.
This afternoon, in and out of sleep
and remembering the moon
calling to me earlier,
I listened to the eclipse coming in through the window.
~~~
All those years ago,
You and your Methusalen-Lime.
He is not old, not like me
I am, most likely, older than time.
And your fascination with the cicada?
Such value you put in their pattern.
Every seventeen years.
Cyclical and regular and almost stubborn.
Yes, they happen to emerge
at special moments in your life.
But these are mere coincidences
As random as blindfold and knife!
It has been twenty years now
My time to shine again.
To perform and dance and deny the sun
From shining light on women and on men.
It is me, The Moon alone
Who brings excitement to this day
I will cause crowds to moan
Inspiring myths, putting spectacles on display.
Not the sun,
This is just part of his routine.
Can’t you see, it is me
I provide the event; you ponder what it means.
