Once the moon stopped seeing me
one to one cut her light from
between my thighs, I lost sleep,
tried on the word barren,
made jokes about how glad I was
to be done, to sweat at 3 am,
and hugged my children close,
examined the aging man
in my bed as if he had already
dismayed me with another woman.
Today, an older moon, witches’ crescent,
bobs over the oak, the dogwood.
I dance, a fool, under her weather eye
No longer one with one, a sudden singular I.
Wendy Taylor Carlisle lives in the Arkansas Ozarks and is the author of two books of poetry, Reading Berryman to the Dog and Discount Fireworks and two chapbooks. See more of her work on line at www.wendytaylorcarlisle.com
What a great sense of the world and ones self to finish with a first person pronoun.
I feel like there’s a message here also for men who reach a certain age and then seem to fall off the radar screen. We have to redefine ourselves.
thanks for the notes Dan–