by Paul Hooker
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?