Tuesday, April 15

From another time and a different season, Rexroth, "Blood on a Dead World":

A blowing night in late fall,
The moon rises with a nick
In it. All day Mary has
Been talking about the eclipse.
Every once in a while I
Go out and report on the
Progress of the earth's shadow.
When it is passing the half,
Marthe and Mary come out
And we stand on the corner
In the first wisps of chilling
Fog and watch the light go out.
Streamers of fog reach the moon,
But never quite cover it.
We have explained with an orange,
A grapefruit, and a lamp, not
That we expect a four
Year old child to understand –
Just as a sort of ritual
Duty. But we are surprised.
“The earth's shadow is like blood,”
She says. I tell her the Indians
Called an eclipse blood on the moon.
“Is it all the blood on the earth
Makes the shadow that color?”
She asks. I do not answer.

p1k3 / 2014 / 4 / 15
tags: topics/poem