Even long after the rescue
has been called off, we rouse
in the middle of the night
and head out the door, our blankets,
flashlights in hand,
and stumble down the back porch’s
icy steps, hearing behind us
the screen door shutting.
Moonlight falls like a bolt
of silk. On the moon’s face
the blotches are the ones
we see all our lives.
No longer do we believe
in the moon goddess
who night after night
mixes potions to make us
well. What good is her benevolence
if it won’t return the ones we lost?
The dog stays by our side,
barks every now and then
as if to calm his fear.
We come upon the same path,
the one we believe will lead us
to a clue if not the answer. But again,
tonight, the thickets yield nothing.
Then the towering trees,
resolute as the coming dark, closing in.