Death of Minnestress
It has come after all
even the moon is a widow.
Hurt-eyed catless moon must stand
wet-mouthed in the air, tonight
caught in the center of darkness breaking about her.
Like cattail losing the seed that it must lose to the wind
she weeps her whiteness above me.
Minnistress is dead and tears are dried in my eyes;
they will not move
just as Minnestress’ dead body will never more move.
Moon, I believed in you, believed in the night
you ruled with your face:
to find out now you did not rule. You only fell
eager-breathed on roaming Minnistress
who by sanct right of some living cat-mystery
wore the moon-dark crown.
Tonight you are pain-faced, little better than I:
with her dying you are part died.
Moon, old mistress and old guardian,
even you are alone.
You are widowed. Moonly
woman is gone from you, you have lost
all vital part to stone.
I stand in the street, in disgrace.
Bereft of all will in my body. I wait
for the last moment, when I have to know
of the unwilling darkness crashing upon the night, and of
the withdrawal of the moon, and of her black eyes
that prick my blood with despair to chase me inside.
And know what I must know too well:
that the woman in the moon is gone
is become hard-eyed widow
stone-bitter with her lies and illusions.
Unwilling, my being is thrown
like the churning tides of an ocean into confusion.
