Anna Sysling
March 25, 2024
Steam curls, dancing over a bowl
of homemade lentil soup,
warming the tops of my thighs
sitting in front of a fire,
tucked away in a friend’s backyard
on Larkins Street.
Tonight is the full Worm Moon
and I am soft, unraveling
the bandages
from places I cannot see
and if there’s ever been a time
to be reborn
to reset
to recenter
it is now. In March
as an ancient softening sets in
again.
The kind that happens before
a deep thaw.
The kind that invites you
to witness the divination of this place,
to believe that rejection must be protection.
My eyes crinkle on the drive home,
smiling when I finally catch sight
of this outrageous full m o o n.
Heavy and orange, hanging over I-96
on an otherwise unremarkable Tuesday.
This moon is a diva
The moon is a mother
A shimmering topaz in a bowl of rocks
A sacred text amid dime store novels
A beauty emergency.
Looking outward and then in,
I notice the service to something
bigger than myself
is paying off
and so is the rest.
Bless up to some god
that I didn’t get
what I thought I wanted.
Dressing up the everyday
in majesty so special
it could be a holiday.
This glowing empress
This persistent awe
This regular night sky
brimming and boasting
overflowing lunar light.
I mention this moon to the man at the gas station
at the corner of my street,
while someone plays “Cuff It,”
and I bob my head while the tank fills up.
Smiling the man says,
“I know, it’s really something.”
It really is.