Marie Anzalone - 3
Hunter's Moon, October 27
In the North woods tonight, it is rutting season.
The deer have invested their month of gains
preparing for the lean season; the bucks like their does
with a little extra in the rump these weeks.
They trumpet snorts and calls of lust
Across thickets, scrub, grasslands. Loudly.
It is the Hunter’s Moon. Life sustaining fat
and hormones at full peak.
Replication of life for the sake of life;
Expression of love for the sake of love,
The taking of life in love for the sake of forward progress.
And I grew up in the North Woods, of course.
The days grow shorter, parallel to my desire to introvert
I prepare to either migrate or hibernate,
worriedly, watching me put on my own winter stores.
I draw a sweater tight, watch the north for arrivals
of migratory winged things.
I slow, want to spend more time abed. We were never
meant to work these southern breakneck paces
365 days a year. A body long in motion wants to rest.
Maybe the only person I want to see, sometimes,
Something in the way I love you is different.
The moon looks closer now, from where I stand;
there is both more and less urgency to words, thoughts.
I will watch the moonrise tonight. I will measure
the diminishing distance between hearts, minds.
Weigh intentions in acorns, sunflower seeds, and squash.
I will run my hands down my own sides,
In the soft bright glow
Thinking of how to best prepare the house special,
and of hunters, moons, and unattainable needs.
Hoping you, like your northern counterparts,
like your rump a little on the soft side.
Tender, and succulent. And loud.
Do you remember?
I seem to recall a triple
with you. We lit a fire on
the shores of a past tense.
Who could have known,
then, about lighthouses
that shine beacons across
the entirety of galaxies;
the pre and post memories
of human belonging?
Honesty at Night
At 3 am, my thoughts inevitably
turn to you. Something happens
in moonlight. Dark heat rises like
steam from pavement, and I am
feasting upon a diminishing bowl
of false propriety. A woman dying
of thirst, presented a well of 30
feet, and a rope of 25. At these
moments, the only restraint may
be measurable distance between
houses. Were you here, I would
demonstrate what eternity meant
when it told the night: prepare to
be devoured in pieces, so that the
whole comes to life, birthed in its
own searing audacity, covered
with the fluids of its first arrival.
Losing the Magic
But you will lose her-
the day you make her always reach out
to you. When you stop believing
she has something to contribute
to your world; when she cries
at night from old fears and new
and there is nothing below her to hold on to:
you will lose her. When you assume
to know all the answers without asking
the questions, when you judge her
present without knowing her past; when
you are afraid that her brilliance makes you
shine less, so you tell her she must be less
than who was made to be;
when you tell her who her God wants
her to be, and stop trusting her own voice.
When you ask her to give up her world
to make yours feel less small. When
she carries the world on her shoulders
and feels alone doing so; when
busyness dictates whether or not
you respond the times she needs your hand;
when your fear that she could never love
someone such as you, makes you
stop trying, when excuses outweigh
compliments, when you see her only for
what she has failed to accomplish,
when you think she is weak for no longer
holding back the water that fills
her longing to be something great,
to someone worthy. When her greatness
becomes an annoyance, when her
feelings stop being heard. The day you stop
believing in magic, in love, in her.
If she has any self-respect:
you, my friend, you will lose.
I saw you clearly tomorrow,
and I will search for you yesterday-
this. This is trying to find
Neptune colored ethics
in a world that is just learning
of the full spectrum of gray.
When a man admires a woman,
he praises her beauty. What
recourse is for woman? There
is no measured “goodness”
equivalent, for defining a man.
Only to see the way light hits
the water at full midnight, when
boundaries between whatifs
dissolve in a soft closely draped fog
I wear like a garment I can hold tight
with one hand, or let fall as needed.
When I sit quietly, I remember
a future with you; and if I look
real carefully at the horizon, all
possibilities remain with the arrival
of each last Sunday of the past decade.