‘Moonbeam’ by Meg O’Neil
I am not sure why we have decided to call it ‘falling’
when really, it is clinging to a single rock, solus,
orbiting the planet of everyone else,
perhaps while lying supine and whistling, watching the world go by
dying on the hill of your loneliness.
but then, suddenly, thrust off it by some unstoppable gravitational tide
sweeping and ensorcelling-
the magnetism once affixing you in place,
like the bulb of an unbloomed flower, pressed.
a secret released into the wild.
a crescendo. a flood. a brand new colour.
a jacket that seems like it was always yours, already worn,
every home hitherto forsworn.
the light in the distant shore that cradles dawn.
the light that pours onto rain-jewelled streets
in pools beneath nomad feet
from homes aglow,
which lives amongst
who sleep elbow to elbow.
the barrenness which now you know
was just the quiet landscape poses
serene and quiet
before fecund with roses
and constellations crossing noses.
sometimes, you can brace yourself in falling-
stop and count your bruises.
(don’t count your bruises)
take another step,
spin around. burrow. grit your teeth. bury. swallow.
but this, this is alien and inexorable.
this is a force undispellable;
It is a sweeping moonbeam, possessing
powers beyond illumination.
a lighthouse. the beacons standing silent sentinel
light up. it is peering through the holes in the sky. the waves return.
the cormorant emerges from the water.
the beam swings back around
to illuminate the satellite dish,
poised. Aren’t we all.
Waiting for the moonbeam from the lighthouse,
craning ears for the echolalia of it.
(Even if we insist
That we don’t want
Any part in this,
Not at all.
Not a dance. Not a tryst.
Not a whisper; unkissed.
And go on clutching
At the precipice.
Committing to resist.)
Even then, we are
Usurped. Our thrones of glorious,
Unharmed solitude, supplanted by
Lures, from the dark it springs. The glow.
A moonlike orb blooms to follow
and with hands outstretched
But the drift is not a choice.
The polarisation unelected.
The space between stars is measurable only
When compared to how Love feels anew.
The long stretching corridors of mystery
The knowledge waiting to become second nature-
Grow into unspoken silhouetting,
To sussurate, leave behind lines like those found in palms,
foretelling in paths like shooting stars
the magnetism pirouetting-
In cahoots like doubles players.
The space like static that exists between strangers becomes
Sensical, becomes rhythmic.
Less so hieroglyphic.
Something which borders on madness commandeers the ship.