She is the daisy, all crude lines and crayon,
the first-grade boy drew for his mother.
She is a crumpled-up letter.
She is the reason why the teen-age boy throws the stone
at his father’s eye.
She lights the red fox’s fur crossing the meadow,
a silvery line ghosting bearded grasses.
She stalks lovers and murderers.
Her appearance and disappearance is a repeated chant,
ancient breath of some greater lung.
Stone-faced vamp, store-house
of whispered confessions.
Shrunk thin as a razor cut, or ballooned
big as a giant squid’s eye,
she returns every night to the sky out of spite,
because she loves
what she cannot escape.
Moon
John Glowney Click to read more...
John Glowney is an attorney practicing in Seattle. His poems have recently appeared in Iron Horse, Poetry Northwest, and Crab Orchard Review. He received the Pushcart Prize in 1976-77, and the Richard Hugo Prize from Poetry Northwest in 1999. Glowney was a winner of the 2002 Robert Winner Memorial Award from the Poetry Society of America.