Moon Prayer

The silver ring of the moon sits in the star-dimpled sky,
a steady, whispering watcher of years,
waxing and waning, and changing, changing-
but always the same silver moon in the sky,
unblinking its cool, moon-silvery eye.
And we blink back our tears
as the years go by.

Mother and Son

After months of running away, my baby came home
smelling of sickness and vomit. Gently, I led him to the bath,
turned on the faucet, held his hand under the tap.
Too hot, and his eyes, ringed with red, gushed
redder, stinging, looking like he’d been slapped

by me. Baby, baby, where have you been?
Looking away, I undid a button, a zipper. His foot got stuck
in the leg of his pants. Take your sneakers off first,
I whispered. He held onto my shoulder for balance,
almost collapsed. Sat down on the toilet

and lifted his arms. I tenderly pulled up his shirt,
tried not to look, but saw his rib cage. And veins.
And fresh needle marks. Helped him into the tub,
turned off the tap, scared he would drown.
Took his hand in mine and opened it up,

placed the soap on his palm. It fell out
so I picked it up. Methodically washed his dark,
gritty skin, wanting to get rid of the dirt,
the pain. Washed over his arms, trying not to see.
Cleaning his cracked, splintered nails, I broke one

and he jumped. Sign of life. I remembered
a long time ago, he used to be small, and I
would wash his soft baby skin with soap that smelled
of lilies of the valley. He used to splash. Used to laugh.
And look at me in the eyes. Now his head hung limp, waiting

to fall off. Baby, baby, what happened to you?
I turned the soap into pumice, trying to scrape away
the stink of decay, but he clung to it
and it wouldn’t come off. I scrubbed his back,
his neck, his pustular toes. When I washed his chest

I could feel his heart pounding. Sign of life.
I ran my hands through his hair. Strands of grease.
Gingerly massaging his scalp, I picked out
half a band aid. Threw it in the trash and slammed
the lid shut. Then I picked him up from under his arms

and helped him out of the bath. He was shivering,
a mass of jelly. Wrapped him tight in a towel.
Touched my lips to his forehead and he was on fire.
He tried to swallow an aspirin, but threw it up. I dressed him
with fresh clothes and led him to his old room. He slept

like a baby. The next morning I woke up
and there was no sign of life. Baby, baby,
where did you go, why did you leave?
I sniffed at the air, thought I detected a faint trace of lilies,
but it was only the sweet smell of vomit.

Hemingway’s Bride

I met him that long-ago day in Marseille. He wore
his bravado on his handsome face, swaggered up to me,
cigar in place, projecting an aura of masculine
grace, boasting a case of beer and a powder keg;

preparing for war, front lines, he said.
He was hit in the leg. But that was better than dead.
Beside the hospital bed, I patted his back
as he retched and he bled, incoherently begged,

that when he was all better, we would move on
together, together as one, and of course I said
yes, why I would feel truly blessed to be your wife,
your lover, dutiful mother of the children we’ll have.

And so it was done. We married in France, my heart
set on romance, he turned off the light, took off
his pants, I said, it’s okay Hem, you’re not fully well.
He said, go to hell, and left in a huff.

Next morning he cried, apologized for
the stuff he had said, last night in bed, it was just
words, words, just nerves, nerves, but enough was enough.
Never opened up again after that, said talking of feelings

was feminine crap. He preferred to chat about bullfights,
boxing and gore. What a bore. He went out to parties
discussing the war. Drinking martinis he damned Mussolini
with Sherwood and Pound, then he’d quiet down

and go to his favorite café in the square,
and write about war as if he was still there, heroic
and bloody all over again, drowning in gin,
and cognac and wine. He was out all the time,

with Gertrude Stein, imposing and stoic, I thought they were
brothers. Gerty taught Hem and the others to write,
but they couldn’t write like him, or fight like him,
F. Scott Fitzgerald had nothing on him. Hem made sure I knew

that Fitz was a sniveling, brown-nosing Jew. And a faggot,
too. Homophobic nut. When he heard that Gatsby
was topping the charts, he coughed up a gut, stayed in bed
for a month. I lived life as normal, he called me a slut.

So I went to Fitzgerald and took him to bed. I’ll never forget
the precise hue of red that Hem turned when I said
that Fitz did it better than he ever did. Priceless!
Livid, Hem came after me with his fists,

ticklish, I laughed. Breathing fire, incensed, he swung
and he missed. I collapsed into fits
at his stark impotence, even when he hauled me
out of the house by my hair, threw me on my ass,

I bounced and I laughed. Then I left France,
and never looked back. Till thirty years I heard
of his death, had to return to see what was left
of the man who had hated that feminine crap,

who claimed he was brimming with life
and with vigor. I wasn’t surprised one bit when I learned,
that he was the one who pulled on the trigger
that blasted the bullet deep into his brain.

Villanelles

Ghost

remembering all you’ve done, you’ve said,
your everything imprinted on my heart-
these thoughts they just won’t leave my head

though I’m still young, with years ahead,
my everything, it’s torn apart
remembering all you’ve done, you’ve said

awake at night, you’re in my bed,
your warmth, your smell, just won’t depart,
these thoughts they just won’t leave my head

the tears, the tears, the tears I’ve shed,
the soggy gasps at a fresh start-
remembering all you’ve done, you’ve said

I’ve tried warm milk and pills instead
and therapy, state of the art-
these thoughts they just won’t leave my head

and all the years that you’ve been dead
I’ve done my part, I’ve mourned my part,
remembering all you’ve done, you’ve said
these thoughts they just won’t leave my head.

Love Song

Jerusalem, if I forget you, let my right hand be forgot,
let me wither up and die and run my eyes until they’re dry,
and oh Jerusalem, I’ll cry- for everything you’re not.

Cross-continental, we were bound by an unintelligible knot
I came to be with you, Jerusalem, unable fully to say why
Jerusalem, if I forget you, let my right hand be forgot.

I gave up everything I had, I gave you everything I’ve got
family, friends, money, heart- at the airport we waved goodbye-
and oh Jerusalem, I’ll cry- for everything you’re not.

Strange in a strange land- and strangers they abound a lot
still sometimes struck by the sensation am yisrael chai
Jerusalem, if I forget you, let my right hand be forgot.

Even as I walk the streets and smell the cat decay and rot,
in certain light you’re beautiful- I cannot lie, I can’t deny-
and oh Jerusalem, I’ll cry- for everything you’re not.

Jerusalem, you know I tried, you know I gave you my best shot,
and though you’re eating me alive- I won’t die! But oh, I’ll cry
Jerusalem, if I forget you, let my right hand be forgot.
But oh Jerusalem, I’ll cry- for everything you’re not.