When Aunt History’s sad

When Aunt History’s sad
She feels the moon
In her ankle—the left one
A moon with silver coins
And tears, Lorca’s moon
That moon
Of a hundred
Equal faces
Each turning
Toward sorrow
Moon-bone
Moon-bone
(She skips rope
In her mind)
But she’s
Standing still
Like a girl
Calling her horse
At dusk
So still
In the heavy world

Author: stevekuusisto

Poet, Essayist, Blogger, Journalist, Memoirist, Disability Rights Advocate, Public Speaker, Professor, Syracuse University View all posts by stevekuusisto