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Welcome, blood moon. According to EarthSky, the moon will be red tonight, on this, the first of a succession of four lunar eclipses, because “The full moon nearly always appears coppery red during a total lunar eclipse. That’s because the dispersed light from all the Earth’s sunrises and sunsets falls on the face of the moon at mid-eclipse”. I’m sure there must be a poem in that, somewhere. The dispersed light of all the sunrises and sunsets? I mean, c’mon. Poem sky, that’s what it is.

I’m excited to see it, even though the science guy on NPR said that lunar eclipses are fairly common. To him I say, um, not to me, science guy. To me a big ole’ red moon reflecting the light of all the sunrises and sunsets is pretty rad. Daughter Two can never tell the two apart, sunrise and sunset, and so on our way to daycare in the morning she’ll say, “Mo-om! (she has kind of a weird Jersey accent at times), the sun is setting!” I wish I understood time the way that she does.

I’ve tried to poem about the moon before, with little luck. It’s a hard thing to describe in verse. And in prose, and painting, and at all. The communion we feel with that glittering orb is indescribable. I’m gonna try to do it anyway, because I have very little else to go on tonight.

The Blood Moon

That moon is the reason for our theology,                                             the separation and reunion of the red light,                                        and the larger eye glancing earthdown, seeing all the cells.

What would you think, as the Hunter after the feast,                           when the sky reflected blood? Blessed, ordained, maybe, before there were words for it.

Wouldn’t you feel like myth-making? A myth about your mother’s last breath inhaled by wolf, to take up residence in glowing red eyes? Or about the time you climbed into the carcass of your kill for shelter from the April storm? What wouldn’t we say of the night the moon turned to blood?

Could there be a pretty global bloodshot stopping, a ceasefire of the pain, to breath upwards and find stories?

If only.

Couldn’t there be tears of hot gratitude? If all the reflected light of all the rises and settings, if all the expectation were cast down upon us?

Maybe then we could feel like the hunter, and know her wondrous fear, of the certain farewell, held fast in a curious station.

And though the red light does leave, this time the waves and celestial bodies are the only explanation, and the moon is dumb sage, preying on dreams.

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Oh, moon. Just remain hard to write about, okay? I’ll keep trying, you keep doing your orb. It’s another “pretty question” poem. Oh well. Another day, and the moon is about to turn red, or so I hear. Happy Monday, you people of poems.

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