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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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