The Seductions of the Golden Moon  

In bed with him for the last time, I was busy
previewing memories.
The way he said, “Let’s go upstairs, hmm?”
The way his whiskey drawl
quickened when he said it.

Or the winter solstice 
when the moon was beaten gold,
gorgeous as Agamemnon's death mask.
It was larger than usual, he told me,
closer to the earth.

The beginning was easy: following the star chart
in the palm of the hand. He traced
my life line to the blue in my wrist,    
the shiver in my arm.                   
Almost at once the middle got underway,   
prickly intimations of The End,
which, as it happened, happened
more than once.

We need distance to see a dead thing whole.
Now it’s scrubbed clean                                         
as a plot summary. The messy elements

were mopped up by the universe.  

-- first published in The New Republic

listen Listen to Chana Bloch reading "The Seductions of the Golden Moon"