The moon shrank like
dwindling soap.
Its rocks in terms of memory
were jagged, sharp,
an unforgiving brittle edge.
As you grew old,
comforted by surly ruts,
I grew a muscle and a brain.
We split like walnuts
splinter under heavy boots.
Little pieces of the meat
made sculptures of the agony.
Felicity would round the stone.
Two spoons should touch in chilling soup.
What was green amidst the gray
can grow a garden even
though the pebbled hail
shredded petals viciously.
All that seems marooned is not.
Wishing crimps the pie again
even when the crust is burned.
I think I see a ship with lights --
a pointed star that
isn't silver swastikas.
Copyright © Janet I. Buck 2002. All
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