Selected Work

          by Kath Wilson










          What I Told the Moon


          Looks like
          you've
          changed into your
          dark sequined gown.

          Your smile widens
          as if you know
          something I don't.

          It's not true,
          you know.

          It's me
          that makes you smile.

          Let's admit
          I put those sparkles round your head--
          (They're my ideas.)

          I tossed them up to you,
          steam rising around me
          in my cauldron
          from the effort
          after rain.

          I'm just here
          floating innocently,
          looking up from my
          very hot jacuzzi.


          What the Moon Answered


          Someone told me he likes your dress.
          He likes your sense of style.
          He likes the way
          you tell it like it is
          to me.

          I've just been going around shyly
          catering to him,
          while he glows and brags
          about your poetry.
          What is it about you?

          You're just out there
          on some tiny planet
          belly dancing
          around now,
          aren't you?
          Doing your hip drops here and
          shimmies there
          while I take care of the tides.

          Still there's something about you
          that reminds me
          of myself.


          Kath Wilson has lived in ( and thus stared especially long at the moon from) five cities: New York City; Santa Fe, New Mexico; College Station, Texas; Santa Barbara; and for the last six years, Pasadena, Ca. An artist and poet, she travels internationally with her mathematician husband. Journeys, the nature in her immediate environment-- and the moon-- have all always inspired her work. She has published in small journals, including the San Gabriel Valley Quarterly and Prism Review.


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