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Emily Strauss Reads

Moon Light

Through the skylight
the full moon splashes
gray-white opalescence

not a new task— every month
it rises roundly yellow against
the liquid amber and white oak
landscaping or steel towers 
of power lines across the mud
flats at low tide

with the distant lights
on the bare hills
shining across the bay

every month is not a new
thing, we may count on its
regular appearance like
a dream of a lover
returning
recurring
a loss that never leaves
this its white reminder, 
the round face of what 
we must remember
or are forbidden to forget

so we need to notice
every time, even as we
forget his face exactly
now, and his arms--
the moon feels colder 
these days
through the electric wires
the plane trees
the skylight
on my single bed.

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