We Will Always be Blind to Our Current Predicament
At my great, great grandson’s wedding
where, if I make it I will be 140;
we will be served the moon --
a magical pudding that never sets;
like Jesus turning water into wine,
the moon gets reborn over and over.
The guests sleepier and sleepier.
Every spoonful the last bite of a thanksgiving feast.
The red sands surging forward and back;
forward,
back.
All moisture gone, long gone –
The birds poke, poke, poking
at the moonrock morsels lazily dropped,
knowing that there is always more, more, more –
The moon, hallowed moon,
beautiful bone-dry moon,
sustain us on this blessed day.
Mark LaMonda is an artist and writer who lives in Santa Clarita California. His work has appeared in Painted Bride Quarterly, Lullwater Review, January House and is forthcoming in Tough Poets Review, Shadow and Sax, and South Florida Poetry Journal
Amethyst Review 