Читать книгу Swan Bones - Bethany Bowman - Страница 10

Why a blood moon? Our five-year-old son

as we unroll sleeping bags onto wet grass.

Is it time to talk about the book of Joel—

portents, prophesies, the book of Revelation?

What’s a tetrad? Our ten-year-old daughter

as I explain how Cassiopeia resembles a tornado,

what frightens us most in this Midwestern town.

Is it time to discuss numbers—consecutive

lunar eclipses, sixth seals and surreal dreams?

Why not a cardinal moon? A crabapple moon?

Firebush moon, ladybug moon, red wagon moon?

I relate the Rayleigh scattering of sunlight

through the atmosphere, how the moon

only appears to be red as Taylor Swift’s

“Blank Space” blares from the garage radio.

Where does God live if the cosmos goes on forever?

If the Great Bear is a dipper, Southern Cross an umbrella,

I will lift mine eyes. Chew the moon slowly.

Hear every crunch as I scatter it in fall,

that perfect pomme, as wind dissipates dew

like a doe and her fawns spreading star-like carpels

and seeds or a red-crested bird, flitting monthly

from crescent to beautiful predictable feminine full moon.