Peeling our way through
the bowl of tangerines, through
another unprecedented month
in a very dark winter. Rain
reminds us we’re stuck,
reminds us we won’t always be
in good standing. Ancient redwoods
twisting in the flames, just a few
months ago. Orange August,
oppressive September. The darkening
we knew was coming, and not.
Pile of peels and pith.
Already forgotten the wonder
of that first night we wandered
out, air barely breathable.
I saw the moon had dropped
its orange sheen, smoke skittering away
for a second. It was back
to its usual luminescent white self.
The white moon, the crickets
churning brought me to tears.
Had I lived in this beautiful country
all along? Sweet juice running down
my son’s face on another cheerless day
at the start of another new year
where numbers could no longer muster
meaning. The moon rose, and I stopped
drinking. The crickets noticed
the unseasonably warm evening,
black bodies moving under the watch
of the white, white moon,
but I couldn’t hear a thing.