Moon Water

Last night I left a glass of water beneath the moon.

What else was I supposed to do with all that longing?

By then the ache had become atmospheric.

It occupied every room.

Followed me from place to place.

Even appetite abandoned me.

For days I had mistaken silence for conclusion.

A closed door for a vanished house.

The moon remained behind the maple trees.

The water remained beneath the moon.

And I went to bed carrying a grief

I had not yet earned.

By morning the glass was still there.

But not entirely.

A small amount missing.

Just enough to make wonder more persuasive than certainty.

I drank it anyway.

The whole glass.

And then something stranger happened.

The catastrophe I had been preparing for failed to arrive.

The mausoleum stood empty.

The flowers had no recipient.

The eulogy had lost its audience.

I had spent days mourning something that was still alive.

Last night I left a glass of water beneath the moon.

What else was I supposed to do

with all that longing?

This morning the glass weighed less.

By evening, so did I.