J.P. Dancing Bear-II
Gacela of Autumn Leaves on the Moon
for Juliet McCarter Latham
You keep the turning leaves from leaving—you keep
the turning leaves near the surface of the moon
under a craterous eye; a padlocked door buried
in dust. You keep your statue of Luna near the foot
of the stairs that leads up to your room, your room
on the moon. The walls build their square geometries
on the pocked kabuki face of the moon. Those little veins
and ridges of leaves: filling with dust, with dust—they too
become reprints of the moon. No golds or reds to their
expressions. No remembrances of green. Chalk
and constellations in the black sky. The earth rises, rises
out of the horizon—just as the ancient astronauts saw.
But the autumn leaves are not here, not here. You held
them as long as you dared. Held them to your own face
like an eye, to see what Persephone saw, and turned
loose your captives, releasing a sigh of relief—to re-leaf.