Eclipse Morning

Eclipse Morning

Air a drift of seaweed, faces with thin lines,
hands opening in clotted light, I awake knowing

today the moon will cover the sun, block brilliance
the way an illness might clot a woman's thoughts,

trap her in a prolonged cough, never
letting her jump outside the moment.

Lunar power pulls tides, awakes us at midnight,
raises hackles on the wildest beasts. I best

beware, keep eyes to the ground, watch
the knots of tree roots turn a hazy gray.

Not flickering lantern light that keeps me
company when the power goes out, not

starlight in a darkened room, nor stray striations
that filter through my closed eyelids as I lie

panting on the birthing bed, caught in the clutch
of tightening muscles—this is parallel

to nothing else I know. I plan to spend the time floating
in my kayak on the stream, watching ripples darken

and fish rise to nip befuddled flies, to watch
my own shadow shrink, the way my body did

after giving birth, knowing that the moon will
follow its own path, the sun soon return to brightness.