moon days

I feel you like a tidal pull
the moon days rushing in to gather
break and recede
to flush out

sitting within cedar boughs
on the right night
the moon rises and aligns with a stained glass telescope
placed there almost on purpose
as if you had only been waiting for the night where
coyote would spill out , falling to the ground, twirling
splashing into lake
crawling out into domestication of water dogs
bred to retrieve love and comfort the post menopausal heart
the girl who married the moon
grandma
post moon days post mourning post matriarch post mortem

oral tradition, art, and love of the moon
stories, stained glass windows, and proctology
I immerse into their culture like I know you must have before
and I cling to stories of spirituality because I feel them relate
to the legends you've left me
but at night when the moon rises
I re-write old Kalispel myth like changing of surnames and stealing of history
howling "hough shines brightly through my eyes like moon does in the sky"
I make art like the creases and folds in the moon like the outline of coyote when his silhouette once pressed against its surface
each flap of skin resting against moondust supported by myth
a face once made-out but not recognized
until now
when I draw

Now I see your silhouette, your countenance, your visage
each clear night
gather and recede, gather and recede
pulling me into tidal waves
into ancestry into culture
moon days rushing out to break.