Strawberry Moon

When morning comes,

the strawberry moon will

enter a new phase, and

the horizon, shimmering

now with light, will suffocate

within wildfire haze, the

smoke of too many helicopter

rounds. I may or may not

remember your confession

unfolding like paper in

my shaky hands. Until

then, black threads drift

over the moon’s red glow

like fleeting thoughts: Had

you ever seen Casablanca?

What bird chirps at 4 a.m.?

If I could, I’d ask the moon

to conjure that last evening

in your overgrown yard of

black tulips, the scent of

next door’s just cut grass,

one chance to alter the script.

If I could, I’d ask the moon

for this consolation. But then

I remember you never did

like old movies, how they

arrive at an end.

*Thumbnail image by Pawel Czerwinski on Unsplash