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Moonrise
Keren Veisblatt
Although I have no wind chimes,
Something will catch the rise of the current
and coil itself beneath my mattress.
Some pea, some unmovable thing.
I will not sleep at night.
Next morning, my husband:
I dreamt your throat was burning.
Breakfast as usual. I eat my oatmeal
with wedding-spoons. Behind drawn shades,
memory shapes itself.
The first man glowers like my father, the difference
as subtle as that between high and low tide.
He drinks reheated coffee
from an unimportant mug.
Mother, oh mother. She tells me to clean my room.
She hugs me terribly.
Husband (a beckoning whisper, trapped in a chord), Husband:
“Everything is so familiar now.
Have we finished it all?”
The sun appears over the mountains. No colors today.
“Remember the Atlantic moonrise?
(So unique) At first we thought an
eclipse, a searchlight, too big a star”
To myself now:
This is death.
At first, I was not sure what it was.
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P.G. Wodehouse
“The cup of tea on arrival at a country house is a thing which, as a rule, I particularly enjoy. I like the crackling logs, the shaded lights, the scent of buttered toast, the general atmosphere of leisured cosiness.”
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