Poem

C Moon

As rain falls on the wolf,
a baby cries
as if no air to breathe.

The crescent moon
scratches the starless sky,
screeches, manicure and chalkboard
screams in my head
and in the Bavarian forest
of my heart: limitless,
echoing deep, deep inside of me,
a hollow, metallic drum
where wolves and bears smile
holding a gun, shiny drool
in the caged, pagan moonlight.

Rain falls from the point
of the “C” of the moon
and you whisper, ‘C’est
la vie. L'amour va conquérir
quoi que ce sois.’ Is this
something that I can understand?

No air to breathe in the rainfall.
A wolf spies. A baby cries.

The moon beats a cadence
until the animals of the night
can dance no more. Pagan
eyes color the fire, birds, leaves,
smoke, clouds, hidden stars, sun.
The heart beats a cadence
until the animals of the night
can dance no more. Rain
falls. A baby cries. No air
to breathe. Could these be signs
that we should understand?
A wolf observes.