A journal of narrative writing.
A Love Story, after Lisel Mueller

The moon is a blue ball that floats
in Lake Michigan, or perhaps a hole
torn through the surface. Couples gather
on the shore to be drawn from their children,
their work, here to be seduced again into lovers.
The women sigh. Their skin darkens. Their eyes
become white in the evening. The men contemplate
and consider; their hands soften and grip a shoulder
or comb through hair. The children, at home, see
the blue ball and sing themselves asleep.

But this lovely interlude comes later.
First, the women and the men must find
and disappoint one another. The eyes will
become severe and the hands grow callused
from chores, from worry, from even handed
meanness. The children must interrupt the lovers
as they try to charm one another. That is the slow,
meticulous, predictable part and will expand
for longer than they believe anything might,
except perhaps a lake or a sky, both at night
split open, making space to admit a moon.