by Susan Wismer
Still the moon rises as if content
gibbous, waxing, untouched by the world
as it is, half-hidden face, distant
So much withheld, touch has gone absent
the earth spins wild unbearable nights turn
still, the moon rises almost content
a white swan on her nest, curled constant
and close, the safe quiet beach, one eye
gleams light, a half-hidden face, distant
you note every day’s endless extent
in the city where people are dying
still the moon rises, as if content
with your absence, eight wearied weeks spent
away, are you well, audio fades
video blurs, half-hidden face, distant
each day now we say, soon but not yet
the unbearable absence of touch
still the moon rises as if content
where you are, half-hidden face, distant.
— from Juniper Volume 4, Issue 2