discontent

Discontent

A broken upper window throwing back half the sunset
Holds my image of discontent, tonight.

That or the three quarters yellow moon that followed us home
Along 1-15.
By "us" I mean me and my beautiful woman partner
Who lost her mother when she was six.

I imagined the moon was her mother, following us along the Wasatch corridor
South from salt lake.
The spiteful mountaintops trying to block her view of her flawless daughter
Or, maybe merciful, to hide her daughter from the still unfulfilled sickness of that moon.

Or neither. The moon and the mountains aren’t mine, who am I to compare them to a mother I did not see rise, fall, wane? Who am I to say that my beautiful woman partner is flawless? Things, I dare say the moon, she, the mountains, would disagree.

There is the problem of loss, of human emotion, of aching, of lust, of oneness and rightness, of death, of binaries, of absolutes, of theory, of touch, of womanhood and manhood, of family, of loneliness, of achievement, of history, of discontent.

and there is still that matter of the broken upper window and the half sunset.
I would like to claim that metaphor and imagine myself
throwing half the three quarters yellow moon,
half a mountain,
half my beautiful woman partner
back at the angled world in strange representation.