Apricot Moon (Final Version) Poem by Mary Angela Douglas

my hearth was swept in the poem
the teakettle branching cinnamon sugar
rasped, an aspirant angel
and boiling, tried to imitate
as if for a joke
the pelting rain on the roof;
and so as to make me drowsy
or to mistake me for a fairytale illustration
the moon turned apricot.
this is to be at home in words
of your own choosing
among stenciled cabinets of the Pennsylvania Dutch
where there is no news ever
only the braided rugs.
a simple cot,
Infinity overhead and the constellations fixed.
something to eat made of apples
the ones from old fables,
fallen out of favor.
but still gold.
the shadows having flung over me,
their nets of violet. and rose.

mary angela douglas 19 october 2021; 24 april 2023