Tuesday, April 15, 2014

Blood Moon

I had hoped for some sort of illumination when I sat outside last night, late, watching the moon's radiance slowly eclipsed. The moon was a perfect golden disc overhead, and then, quite suddenly, it looked as if a bite had been taken from it. Darkness crept slowly over its surface until finally only a sliver remained and then that, too, was extinguished. A moment or so later, the disc was a ball, a perfect sphere, glowing reddish. A blood moon? It seemed more impervious -- more elemental, even, than blood, more obdurate than passionate. I sat in my metal chair, a speck underneath this gold turned black turned red, felt only the moon's inscrutability, the only illumination, my own insignificance.

String of Pearls

The pearls my mother gave me as a bride
rotted inside.
Well, not the pearls, but the string.
One day I was putting
them on, about thirty years on,
and they rattled onto the floor, one by one . . .
I'm still not sure I found them all.

As it happened, I kept a white seashell
on my vanity table. It could serve as a cup
where, after I'd scooped the lost pearls up,
I'd save them, a many-sister 
haven in one oyster.
A female's born with all her eggs,
unfolds her legs,

then does her dance, is lovely, is the past -
is old news as the last
crinkle-foil-wrapped sweet
in the grass of the Easter basket.
True? Who was I? Had I unfairly classed
myself as a has-been? In the cloister
of the ovary, when

released by an extra dose of estrogen,
my chances for love dwindled, one by one.

Mary Jo Salter


  1. Love that poem and I'm thankful for your description of the moon.

  2. That poem is a knee-knocker. And YOUR poem about the moon gave me shivers.

  3. such a sad, time worn poem....a poem of loss and remembrance. I, too, sat out and watched the moon last night. I love the feeling of utter insignificance.



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