The Woman in the Moon
shines me down tonight
walking under spruce and hemlock.
Even under the thickest
needles, holding darkness
I can see my bright hands.
If I woke to the possibility
of my own desire, of my own--
could I even say it? Some kind of
loveliness—who would I become?
Would I be forced to learn another
borrow words from the moon,
tasting them the way she must:
elegant, exquisite, the body of a large bird
standing in the water, at ease in the light?