January 2020
Bio Note:
Michael Mark’s poetry has been published or forthcoming in Alaska Quarterly Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, Pleiades, The Southern Review, The New York Times, The Sun, Waxwing,
The Poetry Foundation's American Life in Poetry, Verse Daily, and other places.
Betrayal
I suppose if the Mona Lisa had been thrown
down the garbage chute
and 35 years later the savage art critics blogged
their confession
it would have caused a global outrage.
But it was only my purple turtleneck sweater.
A gift my parents brought back from Italy,
that you slipped down the dormitory garbage chute
while I was in a post coital coma following
your delicious lovemaking.
You decided to break the news
on your celebrated blog to your loyal readers,
our friends, my parents, our children and me,
to win a contest.
I wonder what the prize is—maybe something I can describe
the way you described my sweater
I believe it was, “Ew.”
Tonight, having discussed the matter as people do
who have weathered 32 years of marriage better than most,
I expect will be as it has been. We will get into bed
and go to sleep. Or read then sleep or have sex then sleep—all leading me
to dream of loving you—just as I was doing
when you did what you did.
Only this night it will be with a heart
that takes the shape of a full moon
perhaps painted by the Master Leonardo
to light the path
for my arm to reach
all the way down that long chute.
In Answer to her Question, “Where are we in this relationship?”
Between the pen’s tip and the paper.
Not the words—
they are merely beautiful.
The flowing, we are there.
In the letters’ absence.
As the echo makes its return—one
of our favorite spots.
Just following the steam’s
invitation for the kettle to whistle.
At the becoming of tea.
The Color of Moonlight
On the way into the house
I saw the moonlight
was the yellow of my scarf.
And in my poem the moonlight is silver.
According to science, the color of moonlight,
particularly when the moon appears
full, is bluish.
This is because of the Purkinje effect.
The light is not actually blue,
and it has no inherent silvery quality.
So my poem is wrong.
And actually so is bluish.
In my daughter's picture, moonlight is
every color in the crayon box.
I tell her it’s remarkable and she waltzes off,
repeating, “Re-mark-able.”
In dreams moonlight is commonly a white
ladder angels climb.
We got home by the grace of the moon’s
brightness tonight, when our car lights failed,
23 heart-choked miles riding along
the path from God’s flashlight.
Compared to sunlight, moonlight is said to be cold.
I know this is wrong.
Before bed, I read the astronauts didn't think
there was moonlight or if there was, they didn’t notice—
though they did report a cow floating,
a flashlight held steady in her two front hooves.
"Betrayal" first appeared in The Lake
"In Answer to Her Question, 'Where are we in this relationship?'" first appeared in Petrichor
"The Color of Moonlight" first appeared in Sugared Water
"In Answer to Her Question, 'Where are we in this relationship?'" first appeared in Petrichor
"The Color of Moonlight" first appeared in Sugared Water
©2020 Michael Mark
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