|Oct/Nov 2017 Poetry Special Feature|
Image excerpted from Sophia Welcomes the Truth Seekers by Roe LiBretto
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.