Michael S. Ryan
The Waning Gibbous in the Northern Forest
A thousand days, we attempt response as the moon settles upon the treetops each night, its scheduled gravitas layered and vying for faded light, a soldier’s belief or word. All soldiers once children. The word may be duty, truth or salvation as odious passions sink translations of Love. When the word does not serve, unable to justify love, the soldiers settle on the girls. Capture and cover, cropped and graved into gratifying transformations. Time the benefit, emotion the fuel, ideology the goal, the commander’s word. Once a month like clockwork he says, You teach them my name – beneficent births of hunters and gatherers, laborers and cooks, believers and fighters. But the girls do fight, bind the child to themselves, sometimes find their way as the forest darkens, and we celebrate our liberty.
Stir the pot