Slam Grand Finale poem one of two: Invention!
I invent the moon:
when gray-eyed skies look down,
I rip a shred of cloud,
ten craters hilled with snow.
I sift a square kilometer of sand.
Then I steal away, running under starlight
just a shade away from black.
I can’t see a damn thing,
and I’m tired of it.
Upstairs, my hands sculpt and lift
and form the great marshmallow mass
to shape a sphere
not quite what I envisioned.
a tablespoon of diamond sutra?
a dash of zig-zag lightning?
a million white dandelions, intact and on the stem?
A prayer. A meditation.
Perhaps a quarter cup of clay,
dug clean and deep beside a pond
where lotus blossoms bloom alone.
Am I trying too hard?
Hell, I’m a goddess.
I’ll get it right eventually.