Twyla Hansen

Moon Song

When the poet says I have grown tired of the moon, tired
of its look of astonishment, I suddenly am weary of self-pity.

And of my own naïveté, that predisposition to take the side
of brightness, even when the dumps arise to turn me blue.

Was it the angels, as the church woman said to my mother,
who kissed dents into the sides of my face, these dimples?

Each time I look at the moon, it’s as though I not alone, not
here, that standing beside me looking up is my father, we are

on the gravel road, a breeze shushing through pine needles,
over sweet clover, over barnyard bawls and clucks, overhead

the moon full or sliced or resting crescent that, as father said,
prevents rain, beneath us soil on which all greenness depends.

Back then, did I sense my father never wished to farm?
And yet he wanted me to notice, toiled to save what little

there was for those to follow—kin or neighbor or perhaps son
but not likely daughter, she who is now out alone in the dark

seeking the stars, that familiar face on the moon, and seeing it
with new eyes like that first time so long ago, is astonished.



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