Moon in the Dark Pines
by Joseph Fasano
Tonight, however you tell it, my mother
is leaning down in her sleep to sniff of the linens
of her marriage bed
one last time, the birds of October
around her. What is winter
if not her firstborn, lying on the plowland
in his dark wool, wolf fur in his whalebone
buttons, his jackal heart curled
down again, in clove.
Nights like this
she would sing with him, leaning back
with a blossom on her forehead, keeping him
from the cadence of diminishment.
She would hold him from the wings of sip and scatter.
But the giants of Western music say
Always I discover her
in her night-things, the gold coins of nostalgia
in her fingers. She knows, as well as song
does, there is no cure.
, we lie
may beginning find no comfort in this house.