Pearl, sealed tight in womb of dark mother
Who is whose mother?
Your mouth clammed shut.
Trickster man of Georgian Bay, Junk Yard Chakra.
Swath of Lapis blue.
Joy of clothes and matching purses. You my pretty thing.
My favorite mystery who fed me
You broke my heart that time you hit me.
Another Friday evening. Arms full.
It’s summer as you walk the walkway.
Hungry throng of smiling.
Cats, dogs. Rosey youth.
You smiled back at him not us. I didn’t notice then.
Car door slammed shut.
I’m not afraid of the dark anymore
of your secret ancient terms
I scramble close and kiss your tangled brow
Your precious hands of sack cloth marbles
Too sleepy for embarrassment
Tip toe gratefully.
It must be right this waiting. Years of patience.
Leave it open (faintly speaking Pearl)
Just a crack
the bedroom door
In subduing the yam, we chop a chunk and
with clean sharp knife carve into morning yellow
outer layer rough removed
bleeds brief and neat
In assuming the lotus tuber sting
back straight, eyes rolled back
relax the mass with good intentions
Breathe potato air
Birds sing through, clambering tractor trailer
In subduing mourning dove and strawberry dust
lifting strands of golden
We sweep a little
As cubes of willing yam
We don our gloves, dump them in a boiling pot
Husband sits saluting, crowning warm salt butter
Diane Moore’s poems are oft times lyrical and sometimes narrative. Her subject matter and inspiration tend towards occurrences from the natural world including natural awkward exchanges within various cross sections spanning the human spectrum. Ms. Moore’s fringe perspective offers a fresh bold look at those same societal fringe pockets and paradigms of which she is most familiar.