There are few poems—
if any—about rhubarb,
a fruit
which is not a fruit,
that stands alone
in the garden,
rising above poisonous leaves,
though seldom alone
on our plates.
And there is not,
to my knowledge
a Rhubarb Moon.
If there were, perhaps we could
kill all the critics—
stewards against cloying sweetness
in poetry—champagne doux
after the effervescence
is gone.
The moon, after all,
is made of rock,
its history preserved on its surface,
craters of hardened lava
from volcanoes long cooled.