“Moon Hammock, why
are you so far away?”
Moon Hammock, when the night finds it in herself to smile,
that is your hour. Now you emerge from the horizon’s margin. Now you hang over
the wet green jungle and the arid city. Now you weep for the hospital and its
sick, you dote over the girl sitting at the well, you give light to orphaned
dogs, you who watching our global soap opera involve yourself, devote yourself.
Your craters never blink.
And as I sleep in you, Moon Hammock,
the night finds it in herself to announce her divorce from fear. Singing in
victory, the stars fizz white with shake. And though sound rarely touches us,
their echo arrives to your bosom, the residue of their joy. The night has
reclaimed an awe for herself that has no dread at its cradle. We can now praise
her without fearing her darkest nooks, her shrillest silences.
I wake up, a light years away whisper arriving
now, the way a lone wave shores up on a beach happy with stillness.
And when the faint beat of the stars’ song reaches out
further, to the ears of the earth, its creatures sing, too: crickets perform
their own variations on the theme; the orphaned dogs bark to the melodies; the
shadow of the dessicated urban tree dances, looking like a grandmother’s black
hand waving; and broken violins gaze at you with childlike longing.
The creatures’ song touches you as faintly as the stars’.
“Moon Hammock,” the stars ask;
“Moon Hammock,” the crickets, the dogs, the violins;
“Moon Hammock, why are you so far away?”
All the nights of the world have fallen in love with you. And
soon the wet jungle and the arid city will sleep—and the stars, the crickets,
the dogs, the cats, the violins, the nights. Soon all songs will end.
And you will involve yourself and devote yourself. Your
craters will never blink.
And only I will curl up in your years and your wisdom.
