Sumerians said the moon was a man
and named him Nit, but those half-wits are dead
now and were dead wrong then–28 days,
for Heaven’s ache, a loss and gain each month,
the Mayan cooking pot slowly getting full
then empty, steady as a tide, a blessedly
soft female light, no glaring old man
or ball of green cheese, not a baleful
banjo or the swelling hoop of an angel’s
mouth mid-song, she’s rock
and dust and pockmarked ruin
a cast-off slab of old Pangea
she has no seas and is not tranquil nor shy
even when eclipsing she’s not passive
or ceramic or idiomatic she’s
universal no rehearsal necessary
hits her marks and never skips out
even when slipping through the various
gauzy disguises of cirrus clouds and mists this
self-begotten modest wunderkind
author of spectral silvered meadow grasses
and snow-crystal glisten mistress,
last-minute inspiration of countless
sweet and sacred acts of belly-kissing love.
