Selenomancy Looking Southward
divination by the observation of the phases and appearances of the moon
At the old house we mulch grey pachysandra & peony—a tremble of sticks, stasis,
sandalwood cinder. At his burial’s many places we ask where
we would find him, how
we would remember his name.
Green frost under the sun as we enter the aborted orchard. Spared bees stifle
a circadian heat—afterlife’s adaptation, or a passive threat. He hid
above the pasture. Stood, in fact, open, in the presence of his lover; while
in the next century the room filled with brine and we cleared the table. I hold then
what I never loved—shadow grass lodged
in the lung, nightingale’s spate noon. But we didn’t read
April’s breath within our own.
I stood within sound’s aura and watched an aster’s pale architecture exit fern’s
undergrowth. Spindrift voices. Kestrel’s counsel
like firebombs through the grove.