Driving Up the Road Named for the Dam, the Moon Was to the Right

She searched for the right word: not pulse
or throb, not swell, or fill, although the moon was full
but not with stone. Instead it seemed more like a gel,
some material not yet named, or a state
of matter unknown till now. When she was a girl,
there were three, but that had been revised
to five, so why not more? The moon was larger
than life, then to the point of a pin,
then back again. As if an emerald, it displayed
fissures, fractures, liquid, bubbles, salt,
veils, negative crystals,
tremolites, terms
she knew from working so long with jewels. She began to float,

not far, just enough to touch the crowns
of the oaks not yet cut down
as the neighborhood had been rezoned to commercial.
How could she keep her children safe
on the ground where they belonged?
Adults circled a table a man had made from a champion tree.
It kept them down if they kept hold.
He could help, she said, but no one agreed. Trust me, he is no good.
Only things with blood
were rising: people first, a dog, a fox.
Birds didn’t even need to use their wings.
The bulbs had bloomed early in old gardens
that someone below them once had bent to love.