I knew there’d be a cloud-covered sky here
on the night of the lunar eclipse
I readied my eye for red moon
felt cheated whenever swirls of gray rolled in
first measurable snow forecast instead, an occasion
I’d normally celebrate every November
this time though my fists shake with rage
I better get to see the coronal edges
of the sun in 2024! A hot demand
I never will get an answer
to in the end. I once lost the lens
of my telescope in the park. Didn’t notice
until the next day and my sweat was not July humidity.
An hour prowling through unkempt grass
proved successful. I found that damned piece!
A tiny part stepped on, wedged down in dirt
a buoy in a sea of weeds.
I never used that telescope again
to see the stars. My cousin told me where Lyra was.
Here’s Cassiopeia in the direction of downtown
a double you in the darkness, a double view
you need to keep locked up
because when you finally see the moon eaten
and a metamorphosis of color
you’ll know how rare finding something you desperately need is whenever the yearning starts again.
Kevin A. Risner is an Ohioan. He is the author of Do Us a Favor (Variant Literature, 2021).