“Artists can color the sky red because they know that it is blue.” Jules Pfeiffer
The cow jumped over the moon, we chant
and we know no cow ever jumped so high,
no moon had to duck,
and the shining tail of comet cow
spreads all across the western horizon.
The shirt I wear at poetry readings—
a tiger jumping the moon—
does not float me across the night,
does not sprout fangs in my face,
and yet … I fly.
The poetry clouds below me
whisper and sing,
and the broad face of the earth
looks up and smiles.
I am a woman with a daughter,
and I live in a house and will someday die.
And I am a smiling tiger
who leaps the stars, I am words
that mutter and shout, I am a light across the floor,
I am a snail on round green leaves
like buttons between the flagstones,
and I will never die.
I shine and continue. I see and am not separate.
I sleep in a land where the rules are nonsense,
and I wake bound by law and custom.
I am earthbound. I can jump higher than the moon.
I am this name and body, this sweatshirt and these jeans,
and when I am not looking, I launch across the sky.
***
In a land with a pear for a moon
golden curves
sugar white inside,
I walk the dunes ready
to forget all that is said of me,
all that is fenced and possible,
ready to somersault
over the moon
and touch down soft
on sand that shines.
***
We all forget sometimes,
and I forget that I need to sleep,
and I walk the velvet of the street
till dawn comes up.
I forget that I am angry
and wave hello to the man who scowls,
forget who I am and where,
not some tired mother
but a poppy bouncing in the wind,
a cloud that scuds on the wing.
I remind myself of my name and address—
flaking letters on the mailbox—
and mumble through my past:
this many stars for good deeds, this
many blurs for business as usual
(what do they expect of me?)
this many pinches for the outrageous
totally out of character!
I forget that I dissolve in the rain,
that if I run in the wind,
it will lift me over the moon.
—Sarah Webb
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