2 a.m. <br />December, and still no mon <br />rising from the river. <br /> <br />My mother <br />home from the beer garden <br />stands before the open closet <br /> <br />her hands still burning. <br />She smooths the fur collar, <br />the scarf, opens the gloves <br /> <br />crumpled like letters. <br />Nothing is lost <br />she says to the darkness, nothing. <br /> <br />The moon finally above the town, <br />The breathless stacks, <br />the coal clumps, <br /> <br />the quiet cars <br />whitened at last. <br />Her small round hand whitens, <br /> <br />the hand a stranger held <br />and released <br />while the Polish music wheezed. <br /> <br />I'm drunk, she says, <br />and knows she's not. In her chair <br />undoing brassiere and garters <br /> <br />she sighs <br />and waits for the need <br />to move. <br /> <br />The moon descends <br />in a spasm of silver <br />tearing the screen door, <br /> <br />the eyes of fire <br />drown in the still river, <br />and she's herself. <br /> <br />The little jewels <br />on cheek and chin <br />darken and go out, <br /> <br />and in darkness <br />nothing falls <br />staining her lap.<br /><br />Philip Levine<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/late-moon/
