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A poem from Stephen R. Roberts
It’s always up there waning and waxing.
Making faces out of shadows or vice-versa,
cheese, or no cheese. Hiding rodent-like by day.
Peering down at night, a big eye during harvest,
or maybe later in the season, after heavy snow,
with silver fantasies ricocheting off every branch.
Yet ricochet isn’t the right word; it’s too reminiscent
of bullets. And there was only one silver bullet.
The Lone Ranger had it. Or was that his horse?
In a moonstruck language, Tonto’s greeting
may have been the word for werewolf.
And werewolves can be killed by silver bullets.
Or is that vampires? No. It’s normal looking people
sprouting coarse hair from every pore, and
blossoming into wolves when the full moon rises.
There’s a poem about it the old gypsy lady chants
as clouds drift over the pock-marked surface,
and Lon Chaney Jr. rips his shirt to shreds.
It’s something about wolfbane blooming, which
must be lovely for all the syncopated losers,
the misbegotten lost, and harried lovers scrambling
in the dark, as Luna moths flutter wings through
the soft ivories of lust. Then the lights come up,
the moon comes out, and everyone begins to howl.
Stephen R. Roberts lives on eight acres of Hoosier soil, pretending it to be
wilderness. He spends more time now with grandchildren, trees, and poetry, not
necessarily in that order. It is the love of these things, along with lariats
and other fine examples of rope, that keeps him tying up words, knotting or