Nothing by Randall Mann

Nothing

 

My mother is scared of the world.

She left my father after forty years.

She was like, Happy anniversary, goodbye;

 

I respect that.

The moon tonight is dazzling, is full

of   itself  but not quite full.

 

A man should not love the moon, said Milosz.

Not exactly. He translated himself

into saying it. A man should not love translation;

 

there’s so much I can’t know. An hour ago,

marking time with someone I would like to like,

we passed some trees and there were crickets

 

(crickets!) chirping right off  Divisadero.

I touched his hand, and for a cold moment

I was like a child again,

 

nothing more, nothing less.