30/04: A New Moon Burning

My hands are burning on this night
of an April new moon, so far away
from those tender nights of being
tucked into bed. The soft caress
of your strong hand on my cheek, of 
mustache kiss tickles and heartfelt
night time prayers spoken with eyes
shut, my hand safe in your athletic
grip. Quiet assurance of your love,
rhythmic smoothing of sheets, the
requisite ‘see you in the morning’
before shut light, shut door, shut eye.

My hands are burning on this night
of an April new moon, so far away
from the gray afternoon of that scuba
accident, of unbearable trouble. The
broken speed limits and chaos, the
feeling you so far away, dearest one, same
name, same age as me. Quiet paperwork wait
at the morgue, your still warm hand in mine.
Unimaginable silence, plodding into the city. In
the back seat, my hands trying to soften your
face, now colder, growing stiff. Right palm over
brownest eyes to keep them beautifully shut.

My hands are burning on this night
of an April new moon, so far away
from the summer night of my grandmother’s
coma, three generations in my car. Of my
mother’s ‘Just keep your eyes on mine, Mama!’ My hands
steering gingerly, nervously, responsibly. Of my ‘We’re
almost there, Ma...’ promise from the driver’s seat. Of
my hand on hers as they wheel her mother off on a
gurney. The steady stroking on back of palm, the soft
wiping away of each others’ tears. The hand of priest oiling
forehead. The chain of hand-holding mother, daughter,
grandmother whose eyes will not shut, not this time, not just yet.

I know exactly what it is about moons and nights that enchant me and
burn my hands. I know exactly where this lunatic love of moons comes from.