MIDSUMMER SESTINA

The lover leaps up at the Moon in play,

but falls back to the ground, laughing, I didn’t mean it Moon

and Earth. The Moon sits still as a cat

satiated, but never truly still at all.

Wind whispers yesterday through black trees,

in another language.

Later Kathleen drew with her hands the face of the Moon.

Her hands leftover from petting the cat,

who had swallowed the perfect globe—swallowed us all.

Kathleen washed her hands on the trees,

and the Moon read her own face in another language.

Kathleen was just playing.

I loved you like a cat

loves her tiny brood, all

wound up under fairy-trees.

I love you in cat language.

We played another kind of playing,

under friendly Moons.

Striking Midnight can’t catch us all:

not the smallest schools of fish, not remember’s trees,

not the smallest family in the last corner of the world, or their secret language,

not the smallest vocalist, not the smallest play.

Mother Midnight can’t touch the face of the Moon,

after all, who makes her own fate like a cat.

Don’t forget to ask the trees.

You’ll remember woody language.

Only they can say who played

the night of the Spider New Moon,

when some lost soul cried like a cat,

and we couldn’t get home at all.

We met at the beginning of language.

I saw your mouth and wanted to play,

and we did play, gasping on milk of the Moon.

Our house was made from the belly of willing cats.

So call off your war against all,

and let’s return to the trees.

Lover, come back to Moon language;

come let us play like cats;
please stop forgetting that we were all once trees.