Twenty minutes into a deep sleep
You pull me off the couch
at midnight
to go outside
and witness the blood moon,
the lunar eclipse
I promised you I would get up
so I meander slowly outside,
half awake
until the crisp air enters my skin
we stare silent
your finger looped in mine
I wonder about prophecies
shaped like small swirls
of fog and shadow
we are watching the midnight sky
being broken and reassembled
all in a matter of moments
the tribunal of trees
hiding the edges of an unknown
forests of stars
the news stories say
“this is the lunar eclipse,
so it’s okay to stare straight into it”
and we do
until gravity falls
back
onto itself
until I free fall beside you
as we sleep
the room dark
and iridescent
all at once
Feast
There will be two meals
served at the dinner table tonight
the one with the teal blue place settings
where the cracked shadows reside
the one you will spoon feed
to your mother who has already died
the place where the tablecloth is creased
just so – where scorn hides in the folds
the legs of the table will shudder
as if the mahogany
were only memory
the glasses will clank in unison
at the table
even when
there is no earthquake
when everyone has gone
to the porch
you will finally
tend to the second meal
the one you will feed
to the rabid dog
under the table
the same one
you kill each night
before the dream ends
Silences
you fear the short silences
the small slots you fall through
you tip toe across the muted paths
of conversation
as if nothing matters
you try to keep up –
say things that make you sound
– comfortable
but secretly
you dread the severed silences
watching your own words fall from a cliff
and drown in their own blood
you prefer the long eloquent silence
of a tango
the long languid ledge
of a wordless day
you wait patiently on the veranda
to hold hands
with the cool side of midnight
you tap your foot
on the stony edge of night
until the earth stops breathing
so you can finally reveal
your forked tongue
and call out
in a century that is not your own
and hope someone hears you
Two Deaths
When the person you ran from
and the person you ran to
die in the same month
you spend your time
examining the geology
inside a broken mountain
you spend time
setting up safe camps
in the dark night
calling for someone
to find you
you write “help”
across the legible places
in the sheered stone
you repel
against the flat wall
of yourself
you travel light,
drop the heaviest gear
down the steep cliff
and hope
you remember
how to find
the next foothold
Connie Post served as Poet Laureate of Livermore, California (2005 to 2009). Her work has appeared dozens of journals, including Calyx, Comstock Review, Cold Mountain Review, Slipstream, Spillway Spoon River Poetry Review, Valparaiso Poetry Review and Verse Daily. Her first full length Book “Floodwater” (Glass Lyre Press 2014) won the Lyrebird Award. Her other awards include the 2017 Prick of the Spindle Poetry Competition, the Caesura Award and the 2016 Crab Creek Poetry Award.