from 28 Moons of August
Waxing Gibbous, 69%
Cloud cover, not a
rustle of breeze. Where is my
midnight walking companion?
Waxing Gibbous, 86%
The same moon, though
we call it out each night
as though reinvented:
imperfect lemon
from the half-off bin
at the produce stand.
Waxing Gibbous, 97%
Hand-pared egg,
hard boiled. No yolk.
No cheese.
A lopped cut to tip
the balance. Wobbled,
tottered, the edge of a tumble.
Waning Gibbous, 71%
I cut away the eyes sprung
like tentacles, peel the remnant
for my supper—the odd spud
scrabbled from the back of the bin.
No butter tonight. A pale mash
of clouds dims the sky.
Waning Crescent, 13%
Spider-silk arc strung in the east
with first light, fishing for
the last ebbing stars.
Waning Crescent, 6%
Clouds laid out end to end,
and the lunar remnant
stuck like a bent pin
out of sight, all things diminished—
an old woman growing blind
so slowly
she doesn’t notice
the diminishing light
until there’s nothing
but the invisible body
of the end of her life.
Seattle poet T. Clear is a founder of Floating Bridge Press and Easy Speak Seattle. Her work has appeared in many magazines, including Common Ground Review, Crannog, Poetry Northwest, Raven Chronicles, Sheila-na-Gig, The Rise-Up Review, Red Earth Review, and The Moth. She is an Associate Editor at Bracken Magazine.
Read poetry by T. Clear previously appearing in Terrain.org.
Header photo by Anasta_Rass, courtesy Shutterstock. Photo of T. Clear by Peggy Barnett.
