Legend of Your Moon

You created me, the brother who got people right,
not the twin who made them face-backwards,
or into ludicrous stone-hens, you made me Moon,

delight of the people, beautiful sister smiling in her
room, a perfect, orbed syllable. And then, you
violated me, in ways unspeakable, you knew your

heart belonged to Coyote, and he roasted your
skin, the people gathered acorns in the long rows
of oak trees at the base of Tahquitz Peak, silent

in their respect for the thunder, and visioned past
Pedro Chino, great shaman on the deer hunt who
transformed himself into a mountain lion so he

could reach the highest peaks more quickly from
the desert floor, the women sang songs at the oasis,
and they planted trees from the canyon. I know,

I felt the mountain lion stalking me, that late day
I'd climbed San Jacinto Peak, and no one, even you
could see me there, dusk whispering to me, and I

was scared, three miles to go and the trail waning
dark. And so I went away, sad, at your command,
for you knew you could not keep me there, the

lions leave pawprints in the snow, your thumbprints
chokeholded across my neck and spine. You broke
my cheek, and the people can only say that you

were not very nice to me, and so I went away. And
lucky for you, they remembered to pull your black
heart from the fire just before Coyote finished his

rabid feast, and you were saved, saved for them,
you look up at me and see a wan smile, a waxing
candle of light, barely enough to visit you, in my

roundabout way of coming and going, filling the
orbit of your mind in narrow ways, and full, the
sister you made and violated and sent away, slant

through your opaque window where you lie alone
at night, wanting me to fill your your hollow side,
your absent twin, I study you, I am shadow-fill.

copyright Ruth Nolan 2008