Jan/Feb 2023  •   Poetry  •   Special Feature

Darling, Forgive Me, But You Remind Me of The Moon

by Bob Bradshaw

Photo courtesy of NASA's image library

Photo courtesy of NASA's image library

Darling, Forgive Me, But You Remind Me of The Moon

A farewell tour is hard.
The dying make it look easy
in the movies.

Sea waves rush forward
as if to doff their white caps
in respect.

Of course that's just me
putting imagery between me
and the world.

I'm grateful for the world's beauty,
which for years I had no time for.
I was busy writing.

Now sequoias save me.
Under them I watch waves of light
breaking high above.

To the east a mountain range
leans back like Olympia
posing for Manet,

and I wonder when I can drop
this compulsion
of comparing everything?

When can I see things
as they are?

that isn't the way I see
the world. Maybe that's why

even now I'm thinking
of you, darling, instead of that
red winged blackbird

settling onto a branch,
and of the ember it carries
with it everywhere.

I can't let go of imagery—
or you—anymore than it can
its burning ember,

one that like my obsession
is never spent. On my death bed
will I still be comparing?

Why give up poetry
after all this time? Would I wish
to see you differently?

No, I don't want to see you
other than how
I've always seen you.

Even on my death bed
I will recall you docked
in my arms that first night

we slept together,
the night dressed up
in her sexy black dress

—the moon looking like you,
as if she'd just stepped
out of hers...