Omen Moon by Marie Hoffman
The moon hangs low in the sky tonight, deep
red against bone white clouds and the black of
space. I search for stars, twirling cotton strands
between my fingers, wanting last night’s light.
My mother shouts from the old window, spilling
out into the Korean nocturne, Death
is in the night. Her hand swings in the air
above her head, back and forth as tree branches
sway in the whistling winds, as if to
untangle my little fingers from the
sky’s net, to usher me within the walls
of this home again in a neat sweep.
From behind the locked wooden door, I thought
Death lurked by, in search of another
soul to follow him home through black, then fade.
Marie Hoffman is a Masters of Fine Arts student at Eastern Washington University, studying poetic techniques. She is also the senior editor of Willow Springs Editions, a small press housed in EWU.
The moon hangs low in the sky tonight, deep
red against bone white clouds and the black of
space. I search for stars, twirling cotton strands
between my fingers, wanting last night’s light.
My mother shouts from the old window, spilling
out into the Korean nocturne, Death
is in the night. Her hand swings in the air
above her head, back and forth as tree branches
sway in the whistling winds, as if to
untangle my little fingers from the
sky’s net, to usher me within the walls
of this home again in a neat sweep.
From behind the locked wooden door, I thought
Death lurked by, in search of another
soul to follow him home through black, then fade.
Marie Hoffman is a Masters of Fine Arts student at Eastern Washington University, studying poetic techniques. She is also the senior editor of Willow Springs Editions, a small press housed in EWU.