September. The moon’s gone empty
as though it too seeks a place inside itself.
The pool equipment stowed, the mowers
returned to the shed. A quiet ascends
like the silence after bells. Soon
the night birds will call other night birds.
Each call a small pledge.
It is difficult to ask forgiveness.
Easier to accept I suppose. I will ask
my mother, who can no longer remember,
if she’s eaten today, if she’s seen my dead father
or the way the earth evolves
beneath the unrelenting moon —
the way what disappears still remains.
Prayer is as much defiance as it is agreement.
Yes, she’ll answer, Sure. Then,
I’m fine. Like those night birds, I will listen hard.
Joy Gaines-Friedler is the author of two full-length collections of poetry. She teaches poetry and creative writing for nonprofits in the Detroit area, including to young adults at risk and parents of murdered children.
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