By Alice Courtright

Early in the morning, I leave the warmth of our bed,

shuffle into the empty room, and roll out the mat.

A quarter moon shines through the front window, 

marking the wooden floor with squares of glowing light.

I begin my practice: hands together, the quiet chant. 

The children are all sleeping, and so are you. 

I open my eyes and see out the side window—

the dawn is breaking over the hills past the park. 

A new day: a thin strip of light over the dark mounds.

New every morning. 

I love to move in silence underneath the last stars. 

I bring my hands to the floor and feel the ground.

I step my legs back and curve my spine to the sky.

I lift my hips and breathe into my frame. 

These are the years when I have a human body.

These are the years that I’ve been given breath. 

When I look back, I see: my toes are bathed in moonlight,

my hands are in the red light of the dawn. 

How little I know about this planet, about myself, 

the mysterious way these energies affect me. 

Brother Sun and Sister Moon, St. Francis called them. 

I know they’re creatures, like I am.

I feel their lights charging me–but how? 

I believe it will be revealed to me–but when?

At Storm King last summer, 

we walked with the girls around the towering sculptures.

Do you remember? We came up to the top of a knoll

and there were two vertical circles, tall and parallel to one another. 

One was silver and the other was gold. Like thresholds, I thought, 

and wondered what they would require to cross. 

Shakespeare had Theseus and Hippolyta wait for the moon to wax

before they could wed under its silver bow.

He sent the other lovers into the fairy forest 

where they lost sight of one another for a time. 

I do not want to lose sight of you, my beloved. 

Take my hand, and cross over with me.

We walked over the bottom of the circles, we stood between them.

The circles were thin and made of bronze. They were coiled like twisted branches. 

What did you see? A crown of thorns. I watched our daughters, 

running around the edge of the field. 

The sculptor, Ugo Rondinone, called it

“the sun and the moon.” 

Between the circles, he said, 

Two visionary bodies of being integrate into one mysterious whole.

I walked around the metal moon, sixteen feet high, 

and looked back at the sun. It circled you, like a giant halo.

I am unbalanced, I know that. 

I can tell because the moon circle, the moonlight at my feet…

the moon–I am desperate for her. 

I need to slow down, to linger my desires,

to pour lavender bathsalts in the speckled tub 

and soak in them all morning long.

Like an older sister, the moon shows me what I need. 

She keeps turning, and hiding her face, and showing the fullness of her glory.

She never forgets her patterns, like I do. 

She teaches me how to put a shawl over my head

and collect my fragile spirit, 

how to remember that I’m spinning through time, 

how to reveal myself to you as I am, 

and open my arms to this new day– 

with your warm hand soon on my waist, 

with our daughters asking for pancakes,

with the sunlight, streaming into our house—

as if from all directions.

Exhibition view: Ugo Rondinone, the sun and the moon, Storm King Art Center, New Windsor, New York, 2023. Photo © Jeffery Jenkins

Alice Courtright is a poet and writer living in New York. She thinks about literature, dance, grace, and the natural world. Alice has received degrees from Yale University, Sewanee’s School of Theology, and Yale Divinity School. She is ordained in the Episcopal Church, and her writing has recently appeared in The Hedgehog Review, Mockingbird, and SAGE Magazine. She lives with her husband, Drew, a parish priest, and their three daughters, about an hour north of the city. Read more at alicecourtright.com.