My great-aunt Elizabeth Fotune
stood under the honey locust trees,
the white moon over her and a young man near.
The blossoms fell down like white feathers,
the grass was as warm as a bed, and the young man
full of promises, and the face of the moon
a white fire.
Later,
when the young man went away and came back with a bride,
Elizabeth
climbed into the attic.
2
Three woomen came in the night
to wash the blood away,
and burn the sheets,
and take away the child.
Was it a boy or girl?
No one remembers.
3
Elizabeth Fortune was not seen again
for forty years.
Meals were sent up,
laundry exchanged.
It was considered a solution
more proper than shame
showing itself to the village.
4
Finally, name by name, the downstairs died
or moved away,
and she had to come down,
so she did.
At sixty-one, she took in boarders,
washed their dishes,
made their beds,
spoke whatever had to be spoken,
and no more.
5
I asked my mother:
what happened to the man? She answered:
Nothing.
They had three children.
He worked in the boatyard.
I asked my mother: did they ever meet again?
No, she said,
though sometimes he would come
to the house to visit.
Elizabeth, of course, stayed upstairs.
6
Now the women are gathering
in smoke-filled rooms,
rough as politicians,
scrappy as club fighters.
And should anyone be surprized
if sometimes, when the white moon rises,
women want to lash out
with a cutting edge?
Mary Oliver
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/strawberry-moon/
