And when I heft a tomato
in my hand, sere orange, seamed
with scar along the split, in September
the bush still blossoming but fruit
no longer sets—
what’s left is the last of the season. Then
the call comes, and more images needed.
Now I settle, alone, attendant gone
in search of the radiologist
but the room’s not empty
a mist of souls in here, shell dust of
women who sat in the same wicker, one thing
in common—we all make this journey
with a load of sticks and knobs. Text:
“I saw the new moon late yestreen / with the old moon
in her arms / and if we go to sea, Master / I fear
we’ll come to harm” I remember pointing
at the blood moon and he folded my hand into his
Doesn’t look like blood to me, more like
a flower, say, squash blossom . . . and I say it now
squash blossom, glass of water, rabbit-face
moon, where are you? In a strange way, she’s here,
they named the new machine Selene, and the hum
of her meditation never ends, Selene building
a pillar of sound, Selene, our former Tartar Queen,
Sister, Lantern, broad-shouldered Wahine.
The pale apples are lifted and pressed
onto Selene’s plate. All she sings
radiant flash luster joule
heat she sings opal shimmer
three millimeters she sings
at twelve o’clock