Poem Every Day in July 1: Leaving My Therapist’s Office


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my photo

The moon is always
an entire orb, although
you trusted descriptions like “sliver”
and “the sky’s bright scythe”
to give you the whole picture

until Mrs. Griffin’s third-grade depictions
of the well-fed face’s phases
created a radical shift
in your notions of the heavens.

From then on, your eyes
sought the circle complete,
and you learned to see
the gossamer of geometry
that sits like a feather
on a dark lake,

proving that the existence of craters
and curves
cannot be smothered
by any lack of light.

You changed your paradigm,
but to the world
it was an old truth:
the heavy, hovering thing
has been floating there all along,
tucked, at times, into the back pocket
of the night sky,

but never gone.

Even when the moon, for all its ashy glory,
is eschewed from view,
its magnificence is present
and astounding.


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