Look, Mom, how the second full moon this month rises
through its purpler side of the dusk not quite a ghost
because of the colour of its face — purplish now
as if it has had as hard a time breathing as
Granpa did. Oh I know you can't sit down beside
the moon on its bed, hold its hand, feel its forehead
— not while riding along the highway on the way
to the bus I'll catch back to the city. Perhaps
that's good. Perhaps we should keep away from the way
the moon's also losing its colour. But it's much
prettier than the way Granpa lost his — and no
need to worry about burying it. See how
it rises without all that, how its face gets pink
as the blanket Granpa had on his bed the last
time I visited. You know how he always said
What can I do you for? You know how it put you
at ease? Well tonight, Mom, the moon's here, easily
breathing a similar light out into the air.
About this Poem
This poem is taken from Canadian Literature #124-125: Native Writers and Canadian Writing (Spring/Summer 1990). You can find more works by David Moses' in the KFPL catalogue and on his website.
