The moon tonight is
the cup of a
       scar. I hate the moon.
       I hate—more—that scar. My love waited

one day, then half
the next. One
       cyst drained of fluid that looked,
       she said, like icing for

a cake. Red–
she said, gold,
       tan, thick, rich. Kind of

One cyst
was not a cyst. One
       —small one, hard, its edges jagged—
like a snow ball.

This one scared
the house on–
       cologist into
       lab work: stat.

Once the snow melts the birds
will be back.
       many men were masked

in front of their
families. Were gunned down
       to shallow graves, together, there.
       Basra. Kaechon. East

St. Louis, Illinois. Nowhere
we don’t know about
       and nothing yet is done.
       This is what we watch while

we wait
Twelve little cysts
       of snow in the red–
       bud. I watched each one, having

counted, once more, and then one
more time, as
       the news reports reported
       and the cold early

northern wind shook
out there the bare, still–budded small
       bush. Balls of crust shuddered
       in the bush.

Birds will be
back as
       though nothing has happened.
       I am here to report that

nothing happened. Except
the oncologist said, then,
       But now I hate

the moon. Hate the scar,
though it shines
       on her breast
       like the moon at my lips.