Diane Mayr
Howlers
Response
Looking Up Looking Down Looking
By Rick Clark
Inspiration piece
I recognize the man in the moon tonight–
He scowls down on me,
or perhaps on all of us,
the way my grandfather does
when certain chemicals send his brain
delving deep into those recesses
reserved for illogic, rage, pain.
He glowers, disdainful of the clouds
that slide slowly-so-coldly past his eyes,
and the blueblack hue of the surrounding sky
eases not his puckered mouth,
nor the lines left by time
that crease his pallid cheeks.
Last night he beamed,
and so did I,
as we stared each other down,
squinting eye to mighty eye,
two long-lost brothers
renewing an antique pecking order.
The sky last night was flooded–
a march of nimbus stomped
stormed steamed goddamn flew
across that sprawl of darkness’ borders,
and I almost no just didn’t breathe.
Tonight he seems to mourn the black,
with its size and possibility,
and I peer back at him,
as I breathe easy, if only for the lack
of those wild chasing clouds,
which ran over and under and
into the moon
like a pack of wolves,
hunting as ice and breath and memory,
slashing across the stars like a funeral hymn.
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