Sickle Moon

Photo:  "Crescent Moon Dusk Sky"  David Graham

Here's a new poem by my good friend, colleague, and collaborator Kate Sontag, who is a wizard with very demanding formal structures.  Queen of the Pantoum, she has recently been branching out into villanelles.


[Note:  the poem as originally posted was revised 5-18-12]

Sickle Moon

I promise he says not to die on you.

We’re driving the dusky highway home,

the moon a minimalist bereft in blue

behind salt flats of clouds. Focused on the few 

clear stars, our beachcombing years to come,

he repeats I promise not to die on you

as if voice can secure his unwaning vow.  

We talk in the dark, our windshield a frame

for the moon. Minimalist, bereft in blue

tonight at dinner a recent widow,

a divorcee, and three single men.

I promise he says not to die on you.

How do monogamous bodies ever get through

grief to the uncoupled side of being human?

The moon’s a minimalist bereft in blue,

a whalebone blur, witness for one, then two

of us. He asks, I answer, our worn tires hum.  

I promise I say not to die on you,

the moon a minimalist bereft in blue.

--Kate Sontag