The first way to look at the moon is straight up with a shot of whiskey on the side. The second would be through the site of a rifle, a man on his knees. The third, of course, is skipping along the embryonic trail, throwing starlight to find your way back. The fourth would be to plant a rose bush on the sunny side of the hill, the side that overlooks the corral where you keep the horse you rode in on. You could look at the moon through a hole in the middle of a slice of buttered bread, or through slits between the fingers of the hand you’ve raised to cover your eyes, the moon’s beauty too great to bear in an oversized tee and bare feet. Of the seventh, well, it’s the one to come back to after you’ve been away and returned. Eighth is to point at her, arm outstretched. Then take someone’s hand and say, “The incidence of candle light might make a pawn tremble with delight.” The ninth way is to be the pawn. Way number ten would be not to look at the moon, but to look at the stillness of the dark lake instead. A circle drawn on a piece of paper might be the moon. Look at it that way. Or whisper her name in every language you know. The twelfth way to look at the moon is to re-assemble the apple slices in your piece of pie. Thirteen is the moon watches you. (c) 2017 Lisa Segal THIRTEEN WAYS TO LOOK AT THE MOON
(after Wallace Stevens’ Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird)