New Moon Dark

New Moon: Dark

And this is my robe, slightly singed.

And this is my prophet’s junk.

And this is my twisted face.

A face that did not know it could be beautiful.

                       

                                    “Soliloquy for Cassandra”

                                    Wislawa Symboraka

It makes sense, yes, that you would be

completely free of light (at least

to me) and it would be rain—

not out of any imagined grief,

no, or modesty – it comes

when it comes, like sun—there’s no one

god or new winged servant bird

pouring prophecy from star-hollowed

gourds.  It fits this way because

I’ll make it.  I’ll build

this bridge to it

and when, halfway (and when the

river

is rushing

up,

when

it’s mist

by the time

it reaches my foot’s

arch

and bone

hung down like ripe

Conadria

figs)

I stop to look, finally, up.

And

you’re pulling the tulle from

your shoulder. 

You’re pulling the pin

from your plaited hair.

You’re leaning into Orion

and then the sisters

and then,

and then—

But the rain.

See: if I were

to unzip my rib-skin:

if I were to tip in

to the grail my heart:

there:…

But the rain.

Oh the rain.

And you.  And you.

invisibly away.

Not river.

Not bridge.

Not you

fig or famine, or,

I’ll face it,

moon.