Spring Moon

Associate Editor Blessing Christopher: Vivid and contemplative, Lazendorfer’s miCRo asks us to consider the nature of beginnings and endings.

Listen to Joy Lanzendorfer read “Spring Moon”:

Spring Moon

Spring is here and all is yellow. Cups of sorrel and daffodils wag in the green, mustard blossoms smear the fields, and the pollen bombs of acacia trees dangle above the roads. Spring is doing what it does every year: the so ngbirds hoovering the berries, the gophers tunneling under the fence from your yard to mine. An ambulance brings you home for the last time. Its empty throat yawns, glinting the silver of an aluminum cooking tray. The EMT stands by our mailbox, putting the stretcher away. He looks at me, seeming resentful of my curious gaze. I always wanted to have you over for a glass of wine. For seventeen years, it has nagged me, that thought, too much of the time. 

It’s spring, and the calla lilies are blooming in vacant lots and planters. It’s a calla lily year, it appears, and I suppose it’s because of all the rain we had last winter. Your bush grows by the pomegranate tree. Each blossom is a clean and perfect candle. Nestled in the creamy center, the yellow stamen is covered with pollen, like Parmesan cheese. Your tree is full of mummies of dead fruit, an abundance you couldn’t handle. I wanted to ask if I could take some, but whenever I saw you, my hands were full of bags and keys. There’s always later, I thought. I’ll ask when I get a chance. Meanwhile the fruit shrivels until it drops and is taken by the ants. 

I don’t think you would mind my picking the calla lilies. Still, I feel like a thief, standing partially obscured, one foot in your yard, one foot in mine. I look at your house, at your living room window, at the wind chime. I’ve never been inside, but you used to play music in there with your band. We’d sit on the porch and listen. My husband talked of learning the banjo while you jammed. 

Tonight, your calla lilies reside on my table. They smell like overripe pears. I stare out the window at your home. The moon grins above your roof. It’s a jawbone, and Mars is the eye of a hare. And I think, what a strange thing, to die in the spring.