On Isle of Palms in the Month of No MoonThere’s never been a month without the moon, at least not for me. I see no stars in the sky, only blackness, though lights flicker on the horizon, ships in the middle of the world keeping a steady course. You can’t wonder with me as I long for this lunar crumb. No matter how I want it, you can no longer talk with me, eat the apple pie, drink the merlot you loved. This morning an old seagull flew near, landed in front of me a few paces and waited, the way you did when I stooped to salvage a scallop from a bed of tawny bits of shell. In this stillness tonight, I am like a young girl pleading under a February sky until clouds clear: Give me a moon, ladle my cup with layers of white beams as though to crush this dreadful roar, waiting for an eastward limb of lunar light.
©2007 Libby Bernardin