The Moon Rises at Noon

She had written 1986 on her check.
That was what he was insisting as if
she had needed to delay payment.
“Are you really Hattie McDaniel?”

“My mother gave me that name.” She
was now the one insisting. He said she
must come in today and make a cash
payment for $41.23.

“I will,” she said, thinking the car
needed gas. First, the cat needed
breakfast. Rude man. How much had
he said? $21.73? Well, she had that.

She would go to lunch and buy that
bright umbrella on sale at the store
on Vine Street. Or Pine Street. She
knew where. Having eaten, the cat

followed her into the bedroom. She
would come home with some yarn
to knit a winter hat. What a lovely
day to bake bread. In her slippers,

she walked to the kitchen to test
the yeast and gather the ingredients.
But first, the cat needed breakfast.


The Letters

May 20
In the late night seasons of last evening –
(spring leaning upon a bit of summer)
you returned as you always do – in thoughts.
I would surprise you. I have grown strong.

It’s been one year since I moved the stream to
where you thought it should be. I built a pond
that drought cannot weaken. And the sea
is the sea – it gives, it takes as you promised
it would.

The sun tonight falls in a mask of black
leaves – the trees of fifteen years. Time,
it has taken. I have found no way to
build a fortress against it.

June 6
You can imagine my surprise when the
stream moved back to its comfort this
evening in torrents of tempest. I see you

I will put this letter with the others from
me. I will try to forget once again that
tomorrow doesn’t bring you.