Rosh Hodesh

The ways we are

more has gone on
in her house
than she wants
you to know.
It’s a night you
don’t need
a fire. The
new moon high
lights details,

the unwashed silk,
the slip she
steps out of,
the bed that
seems too huge.
If you could
just see around
the corner, if
you could feel

the longing
in her wrists.
She lets her
hair flow, rubs
her skin with
the moon’s pale
color, waits for
what could
blossom, fill

out like a fuller
moon or the
mound her
fingers stroke
under rose cotton
pulling tighter
over her belly

Rosh Hodesh

Tonight leaves
go copper,
go red like
a woman letting
silk fall from
her body disguising
what held her like
the old moon,
bare, glistening
almost ready to
start over
again

Rosh Hodesh

under the new
moon she
moves like
an acrobat
climbing another
acrobat’s
shoulders, a
whisper in the
night, a
moment of
balancing.
She kneels on
what on another
night might
not hold her
hooked to what
glows above her

Lyn Lifshin’s newest books of poetry are Marilyn Monroe (Quiet Lion Press, 7215 SW LaView Drive. Portland, OR 97219) and Blue Tattoo (Event Horizon Press POB867, Desert Hot Springs, CA 92240)