June 2016
Kate Sontag
sontagk@ripon.edu
sontagk@ripon.edu
I am co-editor (with David Graham) of After Confession: Poetry as Autobiography (Graywolf) and have published widely in journals and anthologies. Recently retired from Ripon College, I spend a lot of time reading drafts of poems to my husband and our two spaniels who are all very patient with me. If you love food and poetry, please check out Cooking With The Muse (Tupelo, 4/16) in which I have a little poem about cherry tomatoes; it is a stunning book of recipes, related literature, food culture & history, and photographs.
Sickle Moon
I promise he says not to die on you.
We’re driving the dusky highway home,
the moon a minimalist bereft in blue
behind salt flats of clouds. Focused on the few
clear stars, our beachcombing years to come,
he repeats I promise not to die on you
as if voice can secure every watery vow.
We talk in the dark, our windshield a frame
for the moon. Minimalist, bereft in blue
tonight at dinner a recent widow,
a divorcee, and three single men.
I promise he says not to die on you.
How do monogamous bodies ever get through
grief to the uncoupled side of being human?
The moon’s a minimalist bereft in blue,
a whalebone blur, witness for one, then two
of us. He asks, I answer, our worn tires hum.
I promise I say not to die on you,
the moon a minimalist bereft in blue.
Sickle Moon
I promise he says not to die on you.
We’re driving the dusky highway home,
the moon a minimalist bereft in blue
behind salt flats of clouds. Focused on the few
clear stars, our beachcombing years to come,
he repeats I promise not to die on you
as if voice can secure every watery vow.
We talk in the dark, our windshield a frame
for the moon. Minimalist, bereft in blue
tonight at dinner a recent widow,
a divorcee, and three single men.
I promise he says not to die on you.
How do monogamous bodies ever get through
grief to the uncoupled side of being human?
The moon’s a minimalist bereft in blue,
a whalebone blur, witness for one, then two
of us. He asks, I answer, our worn tires hum.
I promise I say not to die on you,
the moon a minimalist bereft in blue.
-Originally published in Truck, May 2012
©2016 Kate Sontag
©2016 Kate Sontag