The Moon and the Metro
On the Metro a surprise to look up from Mrs. Woolf and find the moon, full-faced and bold, staring at me from the other side of the tracks. (Is it to the east? I’ve left whatever tenuous grasp I had on directional geography in Chicago where the lake is always east.) As the train moves on, pushing forward through Northeast toward Maryland, the sky gathers to itself more indigo, the light softening to darkness even as we press on under the electric glare of train lights.
The woman in front of me is reading an actual book. Surprisingly few heads are dipped in prayer before cell phones though here and there the electronic loudness of Verizon or AT&T moderated conversations spikes the train car.
I’m remembering now that the other morning I wanted to write something about the moon, which had stubbornly refused to set as dawn awoke. I tumbled lines in my head:”This is not the last morning though/the moon hangs in the morning sky like a penance.” In another version I heard, “The penitent moon….” but I haven’t yet figured out what that moon was guilty of.
Like the moon, this poem too—the one that is and isn’t about the last morning—will rise again. My hand will reach for the paper, the pen, grateful that the poem before this one—wet-winged, mewling—was not the last poem.