Uprooted

By Amanda Tan

The Moon called me Sister
and scratched wide key holes
in the whiteness of my eyes.
She pressed moonlight
from midnight and twilight
through my skull, carving
canals across colliding
continents, unlocking visions
of crystal web stars above.

My eyes—now open gates—
stared hard as she raised
the leafy brows of drowsy trees,
told them to stretch their tired
bark, and prepare for war.
“You must be brave,”
she told them, “for men
have chosen closed eyes.”

The ground inhaled every word.
Mountains became sleeping giants
of rock and dirt hiding endless
roots of trees all in uniform–
farmer trees, blacksmith trees,
mother trees shading over
sapling trees—all staring up
at their Moon Goddess.
With blinking eyes, forest towns,
green on green on moonshine,
the trees worked high above
their mountain homes,
while earth giants stirred
below, quiet and ready.

“Moon Sister!” I shouted,
“I bring you song and dance.
Rouse my dormant body,
send wind to knock against
my chest and stars to plead
my wishes from. I’m sorry.
I’m sorry I forgot you like I forgot
the river. I’m sorry I never knew
to look for you for strength.
Moon Sister, I see you.”

She smiled right at me,
took a breath, and told me
to prepare for war–
war against man,
war against machine
war against war.

I laughed and said,
“I’m ready.”