Inside our bodies, there dwell the absent moons. And the word has the power to make them visible to the soul.
Rubem A. Alves,
The Poet, The Warrior, The Prophet
A finger pointing to an absent moon
on a cloud-enshrouded night
bespeaks precisely nothing
A voice says, “moon.” And thereby summons
the silver orb, night’s boon companion
illumining the darkness
in my mind.
Do I bear the moon inside me, wandering
the darkling paths, yearning for
the word it summons
Do I bear you inside me, wondering
down time’s corridors, if ever
I will have voice to say
I lose myself inside myself, speak a thousand
words of darkness, yet this phrase
summons light: This is
The moon, ex nihilo at creation—was it
absent ‘ere summoned by the word,
or is the word eternally alight
in the mind of God?