Читать книгу Dear Prudence - David Trinidad - Страница 35

MOON STREET

A poem or story deserves that name.

—SYLVIA PLATH

There is the moon in the high window.

The eyes lift after it and find the moon.

It resembles the moon, or a sheet of blank paper

Plague-pitted as the moon: each bud

A full moon, river lapsing

The moon to a rind of little light.

Such queer moons we live with

Under the eyes of the stars and the moon’s rictus

While from the moon, my lover’s eye

Floats calm as a moon or a cloud.

The moon has nothing to be sad about,

The sour lemon moon.

That night the moon

And I knew it was not the streetlight, but the moon.

A moon loomed, as if set off like a balloon a moment before.

If the moon smiled, she would resemble you.

The moon is my mother.

The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me

In my moon suit and funeral veil,

Agawp at the impeccable moon.

The moon sees nothing of this.

There is only the moon, embalmed in phosphorus.

O moon-glow, o sick one,

The moon is no door.

The moon’s concern is more personal:

Rattles its pod, the moon

As the moon, for its ivory powders, scours the sea.

The night lights are flat red moons.

The moon, too, abases her subjects,

Unloosing their moons, month after month, to no purpose.

But their bones showed, and the moon smiled.

And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.

There was no moon.

The moon went out in a cloud.

Then blackness again, and land lying flat under the clear moon.

The moon, my

Lady, who are these others in the moon’s vat—

Intercepting the blue bolts of a cold moon?

The moon lays a hand on my forehead,

Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.

My head a moon

Round as the moon, to stare up.

To the moon.