Love in False Analogies
The moon has always been the very embodiment of lyric poetry. . . The great lunacy of most lyric poems is that they attempt to use words to convey what cannot be put into words.
– Mary Ruefle
Moon, our constant kiss, is the aspirin
for our pale pain, is ballad-wise,
and parable friendly, has a touch of peach.
In lyric diaries heartaches and breaks
are grieved-out: Love’s humoresque
is this broom of language, a-waxing, a-waning.
Love borrows the moon not knowing
its reflective light, the consequence owed,
but like the mother half of invention,
it births all the bliss it can. Moon pleads
like a slightly mocking emoji,
hangs like a paper coaster, slightly wet,
in the periwinkle and pink sky.
(The whole folded makes a fraction.)
Soul, a crutch word, taken to the grave
is not enough to fill it up; Moon dumps
dust like three loads of betrayal;
Love’s sliver snags in the evergreens.
Hope is a lonely word out there in the future.
Frederick Wilbur’s collections of poetry are As Pus Floats the Splinter Out and Conjugation of Perhaps. His work has appeared in The Comstock Review, Dalhousie Review, Green Mountains Review, Hampden-Sydney Poetry Review, The Lyric, and Shenandoah among others. He was awarded the Stephen Meats Poetry Award by Midwest Quarterly. He is poetry editor for Streetlight Magazine.