I was so worried the hickory I recognized
had died from salt burn in the last hurricane
I may have passed by vervain and apple haw
like they didn’t matter, but this spring
it put out seven shoots from its base.
Still, the oldest trick is the moon missing,
then the “new” moon appears,
though we know it’s the old one, and we pretend
to be taken in like the mother or baby
behind the bath towel.
Really it’s the moon winking,
being the stone that holds stones and now footprints.
And when I tell Frances, I see she is a moon
motionless in the doorway, skin reflecting
a lamp, a face that awakens on paper.
Allan Peterson, “Moon Missing” from Fragile Acts.
Copyright © 2012 by Allan Peterson. Reprinted by permission of McSweeney’s Publishing.
Source: Fragile Acts(McSweeney's Publishing, 2012)
More poems by this author