_Emerald Moon_


Oh how sad for this techno-sexy-nerd-woman-girl-searching-for-eeyore.
Her cell phone is RA which means “roaming” and on “analog.”
These two letters at the top of her screen are enough to give her a panic attack.
This means no one can reach her and she can reach no one.
She is lonely.
BUT.

This lonely woman on the verge of

something

big


Windingly the slim road calls her,
As she slices upward on the edge of the earth,
To the very top of Cesar’s Head.

She finds an oh so knowing,
Way off the beaten back roads path,
Log cabin, small enough for one.
No A/C. No phone reception.
No television (not that she cared).
But no music!

Because this lonely cabin perches
Directly on the highest peak
Of Mount Cedar in South Carolina,
At the verge of the border of North Carolina,

As the hawks land low,
As wolf calls to its soul,
This woman begins to feel like a small girl,
From some mystical Asia.

She is held in the palm
Of the hand of a large genie.
Up up higher than the rest
Of the unholy small-footed world.
And up up up to the moon
As close as one can be.

She reaches. She reaches with the one reach she had been saving for just this one reach.

At night the wind licks her tummy,
Find a place to swirl inside of her loins.
Stirs up all kinds of lost feelings of new excitement.
Licks up to that hole inside of her chest
And fills her with the wind of change,
And of what was, and of hope.

And this little girl-woman lays
On the left side of her body because
She doesn’t want to miss one iota
Or one heavy-lidded leaf that blows
In the dark midnight light,
Blue and black and misty,
3D-like,
Incredible animation,
The trees silhouetted.

She listens. What else can she do?
It is her up there,
Where the tips of cedar sway.
A hawk lands.

Still Mist licks her up and inside,
Tells of old feelings,
She never thought she would have again,
And yet –
Here they are,
Pouring into all of the empty cups
Inside of her,
Until her heart runs over,
With the sex she once knew,
The sensual love of earth she always knew.
Fills over and spills
Until the fountain reaches her
Parched loins and
She is once again
Wet.
Wet with moist mountain earth,
Eagle high mist,
Wet with tears of hope,
Wet with bursting out of this thing
We call bodies.

To reach only one inch further
And touch the emerald moon,
Because in this animated unbelievable
Must-be-a-dream window,
From which she cannot close her eyes,
Everything is black and white blue,
Like old movies but more.

Except for the moon.

Moon-woman wears a branched mask of cypress,
Cedar, elk, and oak holding white owl,
For only the glitter of light
To shine through,
Cuts of emerald,
Like tears.
Because if this girl/woman
Saw the whole
Moon at once,
She’d die,
And go to heaven.


Mimi Gauthier 2003