Michael H. Lythgoe
Tango de La LunaNo one has written the book of the moon
Last night I was invited to look up
As Carrie asked: Is that the full moon?
It was. A full-figured, pale, womanly moon.
A romantic might have called the alabaster orb
A woman with child. D. H. Lawrence did.
Swollen moon, Hunter’s Moon, but not golden.
Yet, the woman confessed her obsession.
We returned to the stage where musicians
Prepared to make love to their guitars, touching
Fingers to strings, frets; acoustic squeaks hung
In the air—before a poem by Neruda ascended,
Sent aloft by human breath through parted lips—
A lyrical tune, tones from a guitar's mouth, singing. Wolf
Moon heard Piazzola’s composition, dancing
To the tango, "Verano Porteno,"
Longing for union: slide, dip, passion-turn.
Portia, a dark lady wearing a mango shawl,
Offered up her poems with jasmine,
Or hibiscus scents, speaking of her bosom
As challenging as arms-full-of-plums
Spilling, her double moons rising in a ritual
Of feminine hands lacing, patting,
Lessening her breasts, wrapping her
Tightly in a kimono with a black obi
Sash tied by Japanese women,
Geishas, admiring her Junoesque silks.
©2006 Michael H. Lythgoe