What stirs in that moon of memories? The other
side, concealed, lounging in the space of other.
The morning scowls its dark clouds.
I dream in their warmth. I sweat. I sing other.
Two halves, one burnished bright, the second,
a midnight coal, barely seeing each other.
No answers, but the beer flows bitter in my mouth.
I watch as questions take wing and form others.
Which name rings truer — the father’s
or that forged on the anviled other.
To be a part, yet whole. To be one note, a verse
in blood, a chorus. A litany streaming other.