Easter Monday Moon

Easter Monday Moon

The curve of you fills my left eye
when I cover my right

if I wanted to

touch you it would have to be

(if I didn’t want to reach

across my face

with my right hand
uncovering my eye)

a left palm, fingers

raised up but curved, you know?

as though I’d just thrown

a ball and all the bones

sigh, high and prized, alive

in their arc and accuracy.

Your face points east and me

I reach up from the east.

Each morning you are yellow
as spring

butter when the grass is new,

when a few globes of fat pause, aloft

and soft, and I watch the tree

in her Easter Monday breeze, her

fingers still bare from her long winter--taller

it seems for this sight

in this dark, taller

for you, for the curve of you,

through my naked eye

in the curve of you

just now on the rise,

yes, what quiet half of you

it fills my left eye.