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Gerry Stewart
Each time the moon is ripe
I scoop blue water from the lake
store it in preserve jars
its magic pressed to my ear.
On nights like this I
spill some in your whiskey
smile at your eyes, bright
moist lips, and think,
This could be the night.
Later at dawn we watch the moon
curl down the sky, the lake
pull back from the shore.
I know that he told that I snared his soul
With a snare which bled him to death.
And all the men loved him,
And most of the women pitied him.
But suppose you are really a lady, and have delicate tastes,
And loathe the smell of whiskey and onions,
And the rhythm of Wordsworth’s “Ode” runs in your ears,
While he goes about from morning till night
Repeating bits of that common thing;
“Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?”
And then, suppose;
You are a woman well endowed,
And the only man with whom the law and morality
Permit you to have the marital relation
Is the very man that fills you with disgust
Every time you think of it while you think of it