Mother by Cody

Pointed, sustaining, hanging
Mid-air, anchoring
The deepest affections of a Mother
The moon is
Pulling into soft focus
all the glory of the sun
Distributing the subtler energies
at distant points,
weaving a web, as a only a Mother could
Protecting,
giving form to
dust and space
- or, as a friend told me –
The moon is an aperture
At the month of this doomed fish-bowl
that we are at the bottom of.
And all life is cultured
by the gentle rhythms
of our mothers stretching backward
Into some distant lineage
The moon hangs in silence, and we sleep
As she works for us, tethered, cycling
-but then-
To be awoken abruptly, by the sand-
Jock hammers in the basement, shattering
Men working, sweating to deconstruct
What Mother has built in our sleep