Taking the Night

"If love should slack the reins, 
all that is now joined in mutual love 
would wage continual war, 
and strive to tear apart the world…"
--Boethius, The Consolation of Philosophy, Book 2, Poem 8 



I.
A big white man,
bearded and staffed by angels,
slides a lever from the left to the middle
and the moon slides through
a dark slit in the sky.

The moon moves from toenail clipping
to Arab crescent to French croissant
to fifty percent of the pie.
Seventy percent, then round and flat,
frightening bright,
with long shadows and no secrets.

Eyes on the lunar clock,
the big god slides the lever to the right
and the moon eases daily backwards,
escaping into nothing.

Thick new moon darkness.
A smothering cloak
covers the sky.
Hands breaststroke 
through black molasses sticky darkness.


II.
When the moon's last sliver
is gone from the sky,
when high spring tide claims the beach,
salt water and damp air
speak the wind's wisdom,
claiming voice in the darkness,
losing words at first light.

High tide throws foam at the dunes,
tosses windrows of spartina,
pelagic trash, broken remnants
of plastic flowers from bodies buried at sea.
High tide takes the dune's edge
and leaves dead fish and horseshoe crabs.

Late into the night,
early into the dark morning hours,
the tide begins to ebb.
Strange northeast wind chants low music
and turtles crawl from the sea.

Strong 200 million year old bodies,
strong small nerve endings,
strong-willed simplicity.
The magnetic pull of the earth,
the shape of the tide-carved beach,
the florescent darkness of the ocean
lead this turtle to this beach,
lead her to lay eggs here,
only here.

The turtle crawls back
to the night's thick ocean.
Ocean and turtle
move irregular and steady.

Dark pulse of blood and sand,
of tide and wind,
of night and darkness,
speaks creation
speaks steady, irregular motion.


III.
Oceans away, across the world,
adult masculine giggles sublimate the wind.
Pockets bulging, eyes bright,
the men are sure they've stolen the moon.
The night is so dark, they are convinced
the moon is captured in their silk-lined pockets.

(Pay no attention to the man behind the screen,
to the jerking of the set, the clinking of coins,
the rusty movement of levers.)

The men have planned a display.
They send a message on the wind:
The night is very dark. That land
is very bad. Those people wear black
hats and drink the blood of Christian
children. Hate them hate them hate them
hate.

At the bar the men buy drinks all around.
God drinks his whiskey neat.
The men wipe their mouths and then
they wipe their hands.
The machines are cold.
The men wear gloves.
Now. On your mark, get set, go.

Smart bombs find dumb targets,
deaf dumb and blind targets,
much better with eyes closed.

Fireworks, tracers, 
time delay photography:
dynamite illuminates
a thousand screaming bombers
tearing ragged neon gashes
in the perfect moonless night.



Michelle Zacks