by Manoli Kouremetis
I take your hand, say “soon” —
how many times have I
said “soon” trapped in traffic and
doctors’ waiting rooms?
If only I could press into you, push
against your skin and shove
inside to become one great thing
with you and the baby.
We’ll fight the tremors outside:
heat rising from the sidewalk,
neon signs glitching,
a pool cover’s flutter
TV picture wobbling,
Fred Mertz’s right hand
trembling when he laughs,
the moon shaking on the mirror,
pacing as if expecting his own child.
He doesn’t wait on day tonight,
but for his son, flesh and bone, nectar
and seeds to start another forest
on ground strewn with fruit.
These replications dizzy me.
The moon cast on the wall,
you in your own full eclipse.
That moon is a piece of blue fruit,
and in its sea where man landed
is where my voice goes when words fail.
I point to the mirror, but you don’t
see the moon — you see our feet,
each toe shaped to fit its neighbors,
pointing out from the bed
as if diving into the room.