Canning

That I would bring down the moon 

is no question. The real question is: 

what to do with it once you have it? 

Too dusty to embrace, too heavy to hold.

It’s cold, too. The same temperature as space 

when you pluck it from the horizon.

But, at least it stays the same size so you can tuck

dime-sized grandma into your pocket. 

Especially early winter when she wanders 

into daylight, ambling through with a walker. 

Stumbling about with her daily, the Sun 

who knows she shouldn’t be out. 

But who will tell her to return to her room? 

No one rules Grandma. No one rules the moon. 

If she wants to can pears in the sunshine, 

no one can stop her. Try and your wrist 

will make friends with a wooden spoon. 

All that preserving, all those years bottled 

up & stoppered, staring up at her pruned cheeks. 

Peaches jelly-jarred. Burnt barley fields. 

You can can the past. Pickle it in memory 

so it keeps in your vision. Try it.

Taste it and tell me: 

what would you pick 

then put aside 

to be made whole?