Sickle Moon

Image by CarlMilner

Sickle Moon (Rosh Chodesh Kislev, 5776)

Sickle moon over Detroit
(over Paris, son of Troy)
and I heard of you
a day late, Paris
after we’d drained our Sabbath moat
and welcomed the profane,
dressing for the symphony.
Vive la France! and an Internationale
audience standing
cries of as applause
for Borodin, Khachaturian, Dukas, Debussy.

Sickle moon
the sliver of a fingernail
stuff of Loki’s ships only now arriving,
cresting over Troy while we
take our comfort in slogans
only as solid as belief—
Je suis Charlie—
Je suis Paris—
But I have not bled as they bleed
and they do not bleed as I would.

As I will. In the streets.
In the streets, said Eliot,
I meant blood running free in the streets
like red tide—
Red tide at Key West grasping like us
for a sense of order against the sea
against tides drawn beyond our control
by a sickle moon scything above Paris,
Bringer of tides that draws the red tide
apart each morning when my mouth splits the sea in prayer.

Sickle moon scything above Paris
Bringer of tides that draws the red tide
sea of bleeding poppies with their heads bent low
flowing westward, westward.