Raised in the small college town of Oberlin, Ohio, I now reside in the small college town of Ripon, Wis., where I'm a local reporter for the weekly broadsheet, the Ripon Commonwealth Press. Between that gig, a hard-working spouse, three high-voiced children, a fussy dog, and two friendly cats, I keep pretty well occupied. I've never published poems professionally before. Other jobs I've held include film projectionist, prescription deliverer, church secretary, and college art collection registrar.
A Better Eclipse
You keep the sun — I'll take
The moon. I can stare it
In the eye, naked, from my
Veranda — if I had a veranda —
Thinking of black lions
And songs sung by islands' daughters
Strung out, holding hands, and in their
Fists stick torch-bright archipelagos.
And drinking black water.
I can feel on my enameled shoulder
The touch of the French doors'
Curtains. Behind my back
I can see you lying there, Moon,
No use for cigarettes, your wide hips
Glowing with white sand against
The ocean night lapping against us.
Meanwhile, the sun, somewhere else
Grabs the earth's face, shouts,
"Look at me." You get between them
For a breath. The earth opens its eyes.
The earth sees you. But it's looking
At the sun.
©2017 Maic D'Agostino
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