Writing Obituaries

Will this night not be night if it wears a sun? Another sun that we
dare not look in the eye? This silver-lit emptiness is complicit,

conjuring a deceptive goodness , stealing eyes that would
have scratched the rough scab of unhealed flaws. How many

words have been wasted on the moon, how much love, how
many lovers? Even spilt like mercury from an alchemist’s flask,

she quivers in the lake, the wind a soft moan in the ear of her
bedevilment. It is December, the year is sinking quickly into its

grave. There are things to forget. Things the moon wants me
to remember. That is her prism, the window through which

she becomes beautiful, makes the darkness a burn of want.
I write obituaries in the moonlight. Even a two-inch horizon

presents a linearity I must refuse. Nothing is perfect. A
moment can stumble. A moment can be a waxing moon. A

moment between this year and the next could be longer than
forever. The way, once, a forever love was a waning moment.




23 thoughts on “Writing Obituaries

  1. What did we really know of anything writ in “silver-lit emptiness”? except that I-in-Thou rang like its bell? Lovely and lively equivocal braces about the moonlit obit: It cannot be linear yet is, it resounds forever but fades. Such bittersweet acceptance at work here.


  2. Writing obituaries by moonlight — somehow I think there is a lot o put to rest as this year passes. And, as for words wasted on the moon, that is an interesting idea. Seems like so often love poems invoke the moon. It is always a strong presence.


  3. I’m well acquainted with stumbling moments, although, until I read your poem, I called them mistakes or disasters. But the stumbler can usually right herself and continue the journey, even though there are things to forget, and the forgetting is nearly impossible at times.


  4. “Even spilt like mercury from an alchemist’s flask,

    she quivers in the lake, the wind a soft moan in the ear of her

    I see all words to the moon are not wasted, as she lights the writing of obituaries, and reminds us of love waning as well as growing. Sometimes I think, how dare she? The universe rolls on without caring, but as a poet I assign meaning because I need her to be spiritually significant, I need a relationship with her. I think this is where I truly learn/yearn about unconditional loving, in this unrequited constant relationship. (Thank you so much for your poetry, which always takes me further than you may have intended.)


    1. Yes, I think the poem, the poet and everything in between – all search for a focal point, something to tether themselves to – and the moon becomes the natural choice. As flawed and as magical as the seeker. Thanks Susan, your support is much, much appreciated. I hope the year ahead brings you much joy and brings us much more of your poetry.


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