Lucent
       

Rich in consonants, eclipse cuts
                inevitably
from its first black
                bite.

Unopened
by sweetness, no air
rolling in like fog
at the end,
                as in éc!air,

no cream on the tongue.

Au c!air, I remember
                the words from childhood,
                                de la lune,

and I watch the moon
                unblossom
                to a thin bright lip.

Hush with diminished
                vision, slow calm,
                veiled,
                encumbered.
                                Occlude.
                                                Obscure.

Dark moments
                before the slow sliding out between teeth,
                bright wafer restored.

Au c!air, au c!air, au c!air de la lune.

It is so
with the strange lucidity
                of hope,
with wild ineluctable
                love.

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Copyright © 2018 Jeri Theriault All rights reserved
from Radost, my red
Moon Pie Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission