Tonight I howled at the moon,
where I had once gathered firewood
for us,
for s’mores,
but now there will be
no more.
Howling and
screaming and
yelling
until
I couldn’t see
through my tears.
Then I pulled off
the road and howled
some more as I watched
my dreams
and visions
and hopes
and the waxing moon
disappear behind a giant cottonwood tree,
until the Union Pacific’s
long,
low moaning whistle
drowned out my own howling
at the moon
and the dreams
that had disappeared.
And when I was done,
when my howling had ended,
I drove long and slow
down that old swamp path,
eye and eye nearly swollen shut,
caked with dust
that had dried up
in these desert fields,
dried up and blown away,
not like a dream deferred,
but like a vision
and a hope
sacrificed on an altar
of obedience
I wasn’t quite ready
nor prepared
to kneel at.
Cyrano Writer: Musings of a Revolutionary Romantic Poet 