Todd Dillard

The Widower

In the middle of my yard my neighbor gapes
at the moon, which roars

loud as a lighthouse beam
bleaching the peninsula.

I want to show off, I tell him it’s a rare lunar eclipse,
a "Beaver Moon,"

and if you ever want to lose your mind
repeat "Beaver Moon" a dozen times

to an 80-year-old
("What?")

taking out the trash. My neighbor turns,
light like sawdust

onto a workshop floor
settling on his back.

Is it sadness
or is it hope you feel

watching a paper boat
twist along a river dark?

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