This month’s moon
is the closest in a century,
bright and cold,
fluorescent, casting sharp shadows
and light enough to read by.

Experts say
it will confuse the animals –
little rodents hide under leaves
or in burrows,
while predators at the zoo
pace the cage,
looking for daytime prey.

He thinks of that sci-fi story
where a guy sees the day-bright moon,
and concludes that the sun’s gone nova
on the other side of the world,
now in flames.
He finds the love of his life
and has one last crazy fling
before, he thinks,
they’ll melt and burn down to the wick
when the exploded sun rises.

Who would I run to? he asks.
My wife, for so many years
my other, my nested spoon,
mother of children,
my safe house, my comfort?
Or my lover,
my wild one, my joy,
my confessor, my racing heart,
my dancer of the loins?

The story gives no advice, no clue.
The dilemma is his,
so he stands in the lit night yard
like a lunatic
under the sun-like moon,
crying,
don’t make me choose,
don’t make me choose.


[First published in Word Salad, Summer 2000.]

10/02/2001

Posted on 10/02/2001
Copyright © 2025 Bruce W Niedt