Pear Poem 3 (reading about the moon)

picture of you crouched on a rock 
calling the tides, sending strings out 
from your fingers 

hot palms you bought our 
movie tickets, too slippery to hold 
in the butter dark 

the moon, a coin, and our bodies
churning along 

crawling onto the couch,
one paw down my pants 

they say the moon is a stranger,
a case of faces

dark brown mole on your 
shining chin, as kids we teased 
it had its own population

shy islands 
we locked into each other, 
neither of us knowing 
what do with pain 

you learned so much 

eating and spitting yourself 
out again 

aged on the porch, young in the wind 
reading about Zen, making altars 
with garbage, cooking Poppy tea

living with your mother, your father, 

and then yourself, 
dying 

you were her moon, and mine 

dignified in the dark

eager and kind 

moon always looking for 
the sun of total
warmth 

dozing in the promise 

of a shadow 

lifting