“I made a promise to the moon,” she said.
“I can’t share it with you.” She was watching
the moon as I watched her, then it. It bled
dark gold, like molten metal, stars catching
its fire. I imagined her whisper sworn
to write poetry, like Bishop, or to
chastity, like Virgin Queen, psyche torn
between passion for humans or verse. Who
or what would I choose? I long for each one,
feel them vital.
Surely she must. I held
back from questions, from uttering a word.
I curled my arm around her shoulder. Felt
her body press to mine. I longed to grow old
with her. Above us, a passing cloud burned gold.
Roger Armbrust
December 26, 2019
