The moon rubs the earth’s head
with lunar pride shining,
subtle and pure; she lays
an ivory cheese color film
across him like a blanket.
She misses the visits
by brilliant people and yellow machines;
appreciates the tokens of homage—
golf balls and flags, but wants
a longer perigee, to lean into the
earth’s atmosphere to hug his future loss;
the earth turns over, pulling up its blue,
green and brown sheet,
buries itself in night’s moist
dew-forming dreams. He needs rest
to heal, to keep producing while dying.
For the past 24 years, Rochelle Robinson-Dukes has been an Associate Professor of English at the City Colleges of Chicago. She teaches composition and literature courses. In addition, she is the editor of Brownstone Barrio Bards, an annual journal of southside Chicago poets.
