Poetry Journal

Issues / Volume 5 Issue 1 , July 2015


Eaten Moon at Easter

Kevin Brophy

  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.