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Category archive for: Karen An-Hwei Lee

Say If Not A Moon

Gliding in circles, a moon slides in from the sea

and will exit again at high tide.

No larger than a fin, the moon scales our eucalyptus grove.

The moon sleeps in a house where shadows are no longer in love.

Moon on a woman’s hand    mirrors the carbon symmetries

of the charcoal she holds—sketching.

Night is the new moon    shorn for a letter

mailed overseas.I hear no farewell nor see nostalgia

in a lunar cloud.

The low tide where a moon circles

finned without gills

swallows a star whose own name nobody knows. Eye without an iris

observes a faded world    without judgment

waiting on God.

What I did not hear this evening or failed to see:

Not-a-moon humming

this pupil of light.

from Poetry Northwest 09.2 Winter & Spring 2015More by Karen An-Hwei Lee from the library

Copyright © Karen An-Hwei Lee
Used with the permission of the author
on behalf of Poetry Northwest.

This program is supported in part by a grant from the Idaho Humanities Council, a State-based program of the National Endowment for the Humanities.

Any views, findings, conclusions, or recommendations expressed in this (publication, website, exhibit, etc.) do not necessarily represent those of the Idaho Humanities Council or the National Endowment for the Humanities.