"Man-in-the-Moon" version 7

In which a man with the face of the Moon is served tea on the porch of a cabin in the woods by a boy who knows the stars, the only lantern low on oil, new snow on the limbs of the trees


A cloud slips off the chin of the mountain and wipes mist
from the Milky Way. The boy tips the teapot and tea,
dark as earth and trailing clouds, falls the long way
to the cup’s dry white. Says the man, “Ah.”
And, “I couldn’t.” But he takes the full cup and empties it
into his mouth, the cup’s round bottom a clean eye
that looks with the blue emblem of its maker at the boy
who looks all the way back. The cup cooling in its saucer,
the man lets his gray eyes drift out of the dark back
to the other. “I couldn’t have another cup, no.”
So again the boy pours the tea, then again, returning
his hands to circle the cup he’s burned his lip on, burned
his tongue. “I’ve imposed.” The man turns his face again
to the lamp’s yellow, though shadows, firm and ancient,
refuse to vacate the hollow of a cheek, the orbits of eyes. He smiles,
a smile the boy won’t see. Stars mess the sky up,
their dimnesses tangled and knotted; any other night’s
incontrovertible points lose this argument. The boy knows
the man’s face. He can’t place it. “How much farther
did you have to go?” he asks. “How much farther?”
the man responds. He rolls his eyes slowly, from one side
to the other. “All the way.” The boy says, “I’ve seen you
before.” “You’ve seen me.” The man glances
at his empty cup, but when the boy lifts the pot it’s light
and the thread from the spout is the tiniest ravel and breaks.
“I’ve barely drunk mine,” says the boy. So the man takes it
and drinks it and puts the cup back. “Ah,” he says
and the boy watches for his breath and sees his own breath
wandering. “I’ve kept you up,” the man says. “I am poor
company. I have taken too much of your time, and you
shall never have it back, yes?” “No,” the boys says, “no.”