Sun Turned Moon Poem by Felix Bongjoh

Sun turned moon
The sun turns moon
on a bright day
dimming into a black coat.
Thickens into Jupiter
in a light undergarment,
slips back
into moon bloom,
boon to faces half-lit.

How have they
held their breath for almost
four decades gone
like four weeks in one month
of moth impotence?

The moon
recharges its batteries
for flatteries,
a hand-pointing shine,
pockets full
of dung stones swirling
amid gemstones,

yet flat -
empty, a vacuum,
dry dreams,
tassels and husks
on snaky tails
carried by fleeing mice.

You've seen eroded
furrows
emptying dust onto busts
on a table,
pens pushing word-shriveled pain
on burning stone.

In firestorm
a whisper ignites
more fire
in inner pocket conscience
prodded by sweat-lined
unease:
do you not see their eyes,
swords of flames
piercing naivety's light silk?

You heard a toy-voice
on gossamers
in ailing wind
flying dry leaf drone
in the sighing wind:

Land it on a strip
by the door,
your tongue's tip,
the sculptor's rasp
taming stone's
dead scar-ridden skin
for a smooth sheet of sheer zest -
too brittle
to carry a wild ear of memory.

Sculptor of fate
on slate,
jumping smooth stone,
molded bone
on tomb in mind-distant dome:

When it storms,
hearts
caught in wildfires,
haircut flowers
outshine Jupiter,
history
spraying Venus on slashed faces
tearing down stone.

While a wildfire
still lives
in its pomp, raise your head.
Barrel through
its arm headed for a burning tunnel:
in it with no exit
you'll see a real monument,
pure bone.