FULLMOON
morning dew coiled on the back of my window shield.

A patch of frost on the ground below by the pavement:

The engine is on, warm, and running.

Two yearlings lift their heads into my headlights

Yet, they’re too hungry to be distracted.

No harm has been done. Hurray,

There’s a full moon above

Quieting my morning. Off of

US 70 now, out on the Interstate

Gas billboards illuminate and keep my math

Skills active before an early hour’s dawn approaches.

Truckers roar by: visible, lonely, paired off, like couplets.

Ah, how bitter sweet: this one of few subversive aspects

Of male dominance passively wanders on

And on across the frontiers of America,

Incessantly, between the intervals: 1—5am.

At least one cornerstone of our economy is healthy

And isn’t out of demand. Hurray.

There’s that full moon, again, I’m watching alone—

And I can only think of Grandma Semmie’s passing,

(Of her fertile African-Cherokee veins—102-years and 8-months-old),

Calmly escaping this world only a few days ago, and just an hour or so after

Thanksgiving. And I can only think of how all those lost tribes that danced

Their genderless, engendered rituals, possibly believed for centuries

That this moon, above, was where Heaven was

12-1-2007