I look up, gaze at the mountain moon,
then back, dreaming of my old home.–
-Li Po
Spring snow, cooled ash. You: first white gleam, then rubbled.
Bright seam of moon tended the burning creeks. Forest char, bone piles.
Trundle bed, basement. Your steam breathed a new sky, a
world dense as salt. Men knocked on the door. Singed skin.
A hinge opened up. Sprouts greened in your sludge. We
climbed your broken spine.
I saw we were bowls, holy. In your hands
the moon disappeared.
From Obsidian