"Night Rush "
We rolled the moon like dung beetles
unaware that it was really our tent's thin bones
glowing under the silver of splash down.
Maybe you could tell
from the way each swallowed breath
slapped my chest, how this world sang
to me. The way the grass reached up to sear
my hands with its beauty and how
every so often l would stop,
wiggle my toes in the black wet peat.
And between the spaces,
I’d tell you of my grandmother the traveler,
her hair like a perfumery of cinnabar and cheddars.
When she told a story, she'd roll my hands
and hers would become the sun
falling away from the curve of the earth,
back through all the days and nights,
to youth in a sleeping bag,
face shuttered against the heavens.
She'd tell me how Andromeda
painted herself across her lashes, how crickets
broke their bodies against her bed,
how eventually she'd sleep, melt
like a Dali clock towards
the quiet waters of the lake.
© 2005 Lisa Megraw
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