The Guest Who Brought No Sky

Suppose the title A Crooked Moon
opened onto a breakfast
not yet written into any song.

A chair has been set for the moon.
Everyone expects silver,
perhaps a little prophecy,
certainly some elegant remark
about the turning of the world.

But the guest arrives empty-handed,
sits sideways,
and asks for marmalade.

The occasion improves.

Nobody has to be a symbol
for the entire meal.
The moon can struggle
with the lid of a jar.
The toast can be toast,
one edge darker than intended,
without representing the end
of anything at all.

There is something useful
in this small permission:
a living journal need not make
every page carry the same weight.
It can take care with a difficult story,
then make room for a harmless absurdity,
without asking either
to cancel the other.

At this imagined table,
the jar finally opens.
A bright curl of orange peel
clings to the spoon.

No one announces a breakthrough.
The guest reaches for another slice.
The conversation finds
an unexpected subject:
why must a moon always shine?

Perhaps this one came
to be ordinary for a morning,
to pass the butter,
leave a few crumbs,
and go home carrying
no explanation larger
than breakfast.