The eaten moon is fattening
Again. White robed priests pray aloud.
The palest pigeons hide from Popes.
We aim to die like foolish soldiers
And rise naked round the churches
Copying the faded frescoes
That predicted how this goes.
A eucharistic moon is falling
Into our mouths fallen open.
I’m taking notes and shopping,
Noting how the pale moon’s growing.
Can we talk without mentioning
That the infinite capacity
Of prisons is a miracle,
That bullets better made than ever
Deliver puzzling parables?
I’m buying eggs and planning routes
Out of here; the jets are chalking
Shaky lines above the city.
The moon’s forsaken colour.
The blue bed’s made for us tonight,
Our window’s open to the moonlight,
Our room’s a basin
For its pale pooling liquid light.
Pigeons bundle out there cooing
Some ancient, wordless song.
Old priests lift their hands to this,
The broken columns of the empire,
The resurrection of the enemies,
The prisoners, the armies—armies of them
Lost and standing.
The eaten moon returns again
As though death will never really happen,
The gods will see to that.
The sleepy gardens, fallen trees,
The automatic gates and entry fees
are here to stay.
Poem
Eaten Moon at Easter
Kevin Brophy