THE MOON INSIDE
1
Women know how to wait.
They smell the dust,
listen to light bulbs dim
and guard the children
pale with dreaming.
They hear danger
tapping along walls,
sidewalks sinking
and edges of the city
bruising the landscape.
Down long corridors
they whisper to each other
of alarm bells
and balanced crosses,
of shrouded eyes and empty stars
while the moon inside them
takes a slow, silver breath.
2
She keeps pulling him up
from the bottom of the Red River
in stop action or slow motion
and replays the splash
blooming around his hips.
She corrects his dive,
restores the promise
of his form, each movement
clear in the instant of falling.
The moment reversed,
she reels him up
to where he's still
sitting on the bank.
Now, mother covers her scalp
with hair torn by its roots.
Screams sucked back into her mouth
become soft syllables again.
Her shredded clothes re-woven.
The table set for his return.
3
As the body's laid out,
she stands at attention
waiting for the clearest light
and then sharpens her instruments.
First, the eyes removed
to see what was seen,
ears probed to hear what was heard
then the heart dissected
to find what was missing.
It takes time to cut tenderly
into the bone and sinew
of the past,
each knife stroke
a loving incision.
There is no entrance.
Only entering.
When the body's exposed,
she climbs inside,
pulls closed the flaps of skin
and slowly heals herself.
4
In her kitchen, she knows
each blunted blade, worn handle, broken tip,
the past compressed in steel.
Along with sacramental noise of cups knocking,
lips smacking, she hears carving knives and cleavers
splitting days into edible proportions.
Skillful at the cutting board, she pays her
vegetable tithes to the crock pot, the salad,
the wok, slices and slices into the heart of things.
Familiar knives carve her into chunks served up
for family supper. From the scraps and bones
she makes a broth and feeds herself.
5
She lay sprawled on the table
between a pitcher of milk
and stained napkin. A giant
sponge swept her crumbling parts
over the edge. Before dis-
appearing into the dust pan,
she remembered how simple
life had been between the curved
fork and serrated knife.
6
Nineteen-thirty was a long,
cold childhood wedged into a scar
and food that filled half
the cupboard. She'd lick
the pencil stump and make her lists.
Each item considered, written, erased,
re-written according to what jingled
in the broken tea pot.
At six o'clock, she always
listened to the news and groaned,
her body a vast burial ground for
victims of plagues, revolutions,
wars, each groan another corpse.
She stood ironing, every stroke
a preparation for the burial,
a straightening of limbs,
a smoothing of features,
a final act of love.
7
a convention of women facing out
into the lens
picnics birthdays
all swimming to the surface
of the acid bath
a procession of cardboard moments
poorly focused with here and there
an empty space
like a prediction
Home
|