The moon contemplates a change of orbit:
to hide, go on a strike; pack its suitcases, turn off
the light, sever the wires, turn away, and plunge.
It has been offended since we learned to speak of it.
It resents how we invoke its name, color, mood,
its taste, even its feelings.
It is absurd that the moon can be shiny white,
bloody orange, a sad messenger, a fierce silver lion,
and a lover lamenting loneliness and abandonment.
We also call it joyful, majestic.
Or a loaf of Afghani bread, a wheel of Swiss cheese,
and combining the two we refer to it as a pizza.
Some say delicious, others say amore.
We offer it up for slicing—
half moon, full moon. Skinny or fat.
It may vanish, appear, or linger unseen.
We chart Its appearances to fill calendars
that insistingly drag us through hills and valleys.
Citizens of nations see images of their jailed heroines
or exiled kings upon its surface. Last I looked,
I saw everything—and nothing.
I could make out mountains, clouds, rivers, trees,
spaceflights, prose, equations, and also saw nothing
but a round shape begging me to engage.
When the moon is full, at its finest, we are told
our darker selves roam unleashed. Wolves howl loudest.
Under its light, we are able to cross the desert at night.
The moon is a cold-blooded body, suspended midair,
staring at us like a mute witness or an innocent voyeur–
an ageless elder, foreign in origin,
yet has recognizable facial features.
He reminds us of someone we have known
since we first learned to look up—perhaps a grandfather.
