Susan Eyre Coppock

Hang the Moon

The full moon rises
low over the field,
so big it looks fake,
a reassuring shine
turned towards the world,
a comfort to those who need
that monthly there, there
we can count on.
Sitting on a flowered quilt
in the field, the child
is dazed by the soft haze.
He talks about the man
in the moon
who he announces
speaks goomengom.
Does anyone here on earth
speak it? I ask.
Only me, he replies.
What does he say to you?
Goomengom, lackie do.
Which means?
Give me some candy, he growls.
His dirt covered hand finds mine
while the other lifts
to the moon’s mottled face,
his fingers climbing up one side,
down the other.
A small arc,
a hinge hung in the universe
between here and there.