The Seductions of the Golden Moon
In bed with him for the last time, I was busy
The way he said, “Let’s go upstairs, hmm?”
The way his whiskey drawl
quickened when he said it.
Or the winter solstice
when the moon was beaten gold,
gorgeous as Agamemnon's death mask.
It was larger than usual, he told me,
closer to the earth.
The beginning was easy: following the star chart
in the palm of the hand. He traced
my life line to the blue in my wrist,
the shiver in my arm.
Almost at once the middle got underway,
prickly intimations of The End,
which, as it happened, happened
more than once.
We need distance to see a dead thing whole.
Now it’s scrubbed clean
as a plot summary. The messy elements
were mopped up by the universe.